


Mastering the Art of Ferelden Cooking

by LadyAmbrosia



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Actual Smut, Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, Cassandra Pentaghast's Disgusted Noises, Cassandra approves, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Food Porn, Gratuitous Eating, Gratuitous Smut, Halla (Dragon Age), I hate tags, Implied Smut, Is this all fluff? I think this is all fluff, Kidnapping, Minor Blackwall/Josephine Montilyet, Modern Girl in Thedas, Slight Cannon divergence, Slow Burn, The Smut Must Flow, Threesome - F/F/M, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, bad food puns, fluff and smut wrapped up in sugar and spice and everything nice, glorious halla, good food puns, gratuitous cuteness, gratuitous food, gratuitous gratuitousness, hold onto your ankles, literal smut, rescuing, this ending's gonna give you whiplash, ugly food puns, wait--what?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-02-09 13:36:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 50
Words: 47,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12888996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAmbrosia/pseuds/LadyAmbrosia
Summary: What would a regular relationship look like between the Commander of the Inquisition and a no-one-special-normal person?Food blogger Kit ends up in Ferelden after entering the realm of dreamers when an explosion rocks the Fade. Suspicious of her appearance with the Herald of Andraste and her description of the same explosion that destroyed the Conclave, she is held prisoner by the mistrustful leaders of the Inquisition. Upon her eventual release Kit forms an unlikely friendship with the Commander of the Inquisition's army and eventually finds a place for herself, doing the only thing she's ever been good at—cooking. Only to, once again, become tangled in a web of political intrigue and other disasters.





	1. I Yam Who I Yam

Feet scuffle and scrape small stones across the unpaved floor interrupting the steady drip of water that echoes through the chamber. The hum of aborted sounds of muffled conversations, too low to make-out words but too loud to hide emotion drift into the cell. The air is thick and coats the back of my throat with the sourness of bodily functions, the mustiness of old mildew from the weeping stone walls, and the powdery-sweet scent of fresh hay that dusts the muddy floors.

“Who. Are. You?” The angry brunette orders from the opposite side of a gridded iron door—lined with spikes, it is all that stands between us—presumably to deter me from flinging myself forward or perhaps it is more simply to keep from getting too close to those on the other side. Not that it matters. Rough metal cuffs chafe against my raw, red skin. My wrists are in shackles and chained to a large metal ring embedded in stone. I’m not going anywhere.

“Right.” I said clearing my throat and attempting a friendly non-threatening tone, “I'm Kit. It's nice...ish, to meet you.” My chains snap as I step forward, signaling the end of my tether and sentence. Everyone around me wears a shade of fear. Eyes too wide. Voices too bright. Fingers fidgeting to hide their tremble.

“The conclave was destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead.” The furious woman tells me, her voice cracking with emotion. “Except for you and your accomplice.”

“I don't know what that is? I don't have an accomplice.” I answered, trying to maintain a sense of calm.

“So you admit to destroying the conclave on your own?”

“Whoo-boy! _No._ That's  _definitely not_  what I said.” This conversation is sounding much too familiar—but how and why? It is also sounding very _damning_.

“You came through the rift—“

“What's a— _I did_? What's a rift? A rift in what?” My brain scrambles, spitting out endless scenarios and possibilities like a computer with a printer gone haywire, but nothing made sense…kind of like a computer with a printer gone haywire.

“—With. The. Elf.” She snarled.

“The elf?” As if on cue the person in question screams, her hand lighting up like a Christmas tree. “Oh. Holy—“

“We will ask your accomplice the same questions—“

“— _shit_.” It hits me.

“—when she regains consciousness.”

“Am I supposed to be in  _Ferelden_?” I cried in relief, or maybe disbelief? At this point, my primary concern is not being decapitated. I wonder just how Ferelden slipped into my subconscious. The last time I had played Dragon Age was _at least_ two years ago… shortly after the release of Inquisition. The details of the game are, at the moment, fuzzy at best. But still Ferelden—I can totally deal with Ferelden. I  _know_  Ferelden... _in theory_. “Is this still part of my dream?”

“Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now?” The angry brunette demands.  _Cassandra._ She looks different in non-cartoon form. Sharper. Harder. More fierce. More violent. More angry. More... eager to kill now and ask questions later.

“Yikes! That is _completely_ unnecessary!” I cried, jumping back. My chains screech in the most undignified manner—pretty much the way I would like to be screeching right now. Can I be decapitated in a dream? Of course, I can...what I mean is: Did dream decapitation work like the falling theory—if I hit the ground or lose my head—would I die in real life? I don't want to find out the wrong way.

“Your vernacular is strange. Where are you from?” A quiet redhead asked, stepping into view, her own accent vastly different from Cassandra's.  _Leliana._ Softer, quieter. No less deadly. I press my back against the wall now that I have very legitimate concerns about shivs because— _Leliana_. Decapitations and shivs! My, my, how things just keep getting better in Thedas! I am half tempted to ask to go back through that portal and deal with those spider-things. _Fuck Ferelden._

“You ask if you're dreaming, why?” A bald head emerged from the shadows. _Solas._  He steps into the light, hands held behind his back. “Tell me what you've experienced. Tell me of your  _dream_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because it seemed like a thing that needed to be done, and for whatever it's worth, I now have a tumblr: [madameambrosia.tumblr.com](https://madameambrosia.tumblr.com/) In case you'd like to take a tumblr with me. Please forgive any stumbles, I've no idea what to do with it yet.
> 
> ❤
> 
> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	2. Crumb to Your Senses

I have a recurring dream about egg whites that won't peak and pastry cream that curdles. I open the refrigerator door only to discover I am out of eggs— _again_ and step into the appliance which transforms into the egg aisle at the market... Only to discover that _they too_  are out of eggs.

They are always out of eggs in this dream.

Luckily, this time, they have nugs and nugs are on clearance for 9.41% off. I can buy a nug to keep in the fridge and never be out of eggs again. I'm not so confident that nugs lay eggs like Cadbury Bunnies but then again, what makes sense in a dream?

As I leave the store, having traded my shoes for my new nug—on a bedazzled purple leash, _no less_ —I find myself taking the mirrored exit which opens to a pathway that leads to more mirrors. This was where things had become really  _different_. Usually, I wake after I exit the store.

It was strange to find myself barefoot and aimlessly wandering through a park with a nug on a leash, meandering among crystalline trees that glittered with songbirds and mirrors scattered throughout. The air was thick with birdsong and the heady smells of honeysuckle and jasmine. I felt a little like Alice must have when she realized she was in Wonderland.

The further I walked the more detail I noticed in my surroundings and the more my dream world seemed to grow. A storm churned in the distance spreading a sickly green tint to everything in its shadow. A brilliant explosion of lightning and a roar of thunder shattered the tranquility of the world around me and resounding shockwave roared through the park, bringing my nug and me to our knees. The crystal of the trees chimed ominously, splintering, dropping their bark and foliage to the ground in a perversion of shattered raindrops. The glass leaves scraped across the ground in a discordant howl as they were swept away by the screaming wind. Black and green clouds swirled, rising higher and spreading the maelstrom spread, lightning snapping and crackling within its emerald nightmare.

I tried to find my way back. Racing from mirror to mirror. My nug squawking in protest, straining pitifully against its leash. The mirrors looked the same, and I couldn't remember which I'd entered through. Each one a solid reflection of the shadowy doom that swirled through the once pristine and magical park.

The storm raged closer, bigger. The tiny songbirds that remained in the skeletal trees transformed, darkening and elongating into something darker more fearsome. Their feathers spread down into legs, their little beaks splitting into mandibles, and their vibrant colors blurred into shadow. They scurried between the branches, following me and my nug, the jade light glinting off the dead obsidian orbs of their eyes. They dropped to the ground, inching closer, skittering and chirping in aberration of the sweet songs they once sang.

My nug screamed. The purple leash snapped. Its soft pink body wiggling as it galloped away from the spiders and toward the storm. Stupidly I chased after it, the spiders close behind.

My nug was too fast. It ran too far ahead and out of my sight until I saw it, curled on the ground, a wan unmoving speck in the distance. I ran toward the pale shape, yelling encouraging words for it not to move—because animals _always_ responded well to yelling, encouraging words or otherwise. The creature’s limbs lengthened as I drew near, and I realized at once that this was not my nug but a girl. A very frail, slight girl with long pointy ears.

She wailed in a language I didn't understand. Clearly distressed, she cradled her hand to her chest. A blinding emerald seam of light bisected her palm, lit from within. Her words flowed as rapidly from her mouth as the tears down her cheeks.

“They're all gone!” She wailed, rocking herself back and forth. She cried as the green light in her hand flared with an angry crackle and snap.

“You need to get up,” I said, my tone not conveying my feeling of urgency. “We need to go— _now_. It's not safe here.”

“Who are you?” She asked, speaking English.

“I'm Kit, and there's an army of spider-things following me. We need to get out of here.” I ordered.

"Gone..." She cried again.

“Come on, we need to get out of here.” I tugged at her good arm, which she promptly snatched away. She was surprisingly strong for such a small person. I reached for her again, refusing to let go. “Get your skinny-ass up and cry later! _We need to go!”_

Unsure if it was my harsh words or the approaching insect scourge that finally encouraged her to crawl to her feet, but _something_ worked—we turned and ran hand-in-hand up a hill toward a beckoning white figure—leaping through a vortex and into a steaming pile of medieval shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	3. Make Like a Tea and Leaf

“ _Fascinating._  I admit, in all my journeys to the fade I have never found a path to another world. What is a  _re_ -frig- _er_ -ate- _or_?” Solas asked, pronouncing each syllable individually.

“Well, it's a big metal box that keeps your food cold and fresh so that it doesn't spoil as quickly.”

“Oh,” He frowned. “Have you always been a dream walker?”

“I don't think I’m familiar with the term?”

“Have you always been aware when you're dreaming? Able to control your dreams, things of that nature?”

“Oh that, yes...” I nodded, “mostly.”

“So, you are _also_ a mage?” Solas pressed.

“No. There's no such thing as magic where I'm from.”

He gave me a look that said I was wrong—about what, I wasn't quite sure?

“Solas— _explain_ ,” Cassandra huffed.

“It seems she's described the crossroads and the explosion at the Conclave from the Fade.”

“Meaning?” She crossed her arms and scowled at him, no more patient with him as an ally than she was with me as a potential threat.

“Meaning...she was in the Fade when it happened.”

“Could she have caused the explosion, Solas?”

He tapped his chin before answering, “she  _is_  a mage of unknown origin.”

“Not a mage!” I yell, putting me on the receiving end of some nasty side eye from both of them.

“I do not know what her capabilities are, Seeker?”

“Can I go back?” I asked.

“I do not know that either.” He said tapping his chin. Again. I thought I might like to break that spindly-thinking-finger of his if I ever got-free of this cell.  “The possibility seems—unlikely? I suspect your path home was disrupted by the same magic that caused the explosion at the conclave—perhaps the path that led you here was a construct of that magic? Even if you were to re-enter the raw-fade through a rift, there is no surety that you could find your way back to the crossroads  _or_ find the eluvian that permitted your travel here in the first place. To try could mean wandering the fade forever.”

“So, I'm  _stuck?_   _Here_?” Never mind. I could totally _not_ deal with Ferelden. I needed central heating. 

_I needed Refrigerators._

“It would seem so, yes.” He answered.

_I needed Air conditioning._

_Netflix._

“Oh. I—um... oh. Wow.” I stammered, trying to find the words.

Yeah... I could wake up any time now and that would be great. My vision was white and fuzzy around the edges. The possibility that I might actually be stuck here...It was a lot to digest—too much. While I realized that there might still be hope to find a way home, I wasn’t certain that I wasn’t still dreaming. But, what Solas had described, if this was to be my future, was damning.

_Memory foam._

_Kindle Unlimited._

“Are you...alright?” Leliana asked, softly.

_Spanx._

_Midol._

_Tampons._

_My cat._

“Are you  _fucking_  kidding me?” I yelled in an explosion of breath I didn't realize I was holding. “All I did was take  _a nap_  and now I'm in a frozen medieval shithole world with fucking demons and dragons and no chance of _ever_ going home—to a place that has none of those things, by the way—and you ask me if I'm  _alright_? Of course, I'm _not_ alright! This. Is.  _Not._  Okay!”

“Leave her for now,” Cassandra instructs the guards.

"None of this is okay!" I shouted.

“Are you sure, Cassandra?” Leliana questioned.

“We've yet to understand what she's capable of. I will not willingly endanger us further.” Cassandra snapped.

“I get a phone call! I want my lawyer!” I screamed at their backs, chains rattling. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	4. It's All Gouda

They don't release me with  _the_  elf. Instead, I'd been transported through the forward camp in a prisoner's box on a wagon after the route to Haven was cleared of demons and other _things._ The journey took three days, at a pace that was no faster than a ninety-year-old with a limp taking a leisurely stroll. After that, they kept me locked in a cell in Haven's dungeons for another week—give or take or give. There was no light and meals were irregular at best, counting days was futile. It wasn’t until the Herald of Andraste regained consciousness and finally asked about the other woman that had helped her from the fade—the  _real_  one—that I was released.

My hair is still dirty, even though it’s been washed twice in a tepid bucket of water I’d been provided in lieu of a bathtub, as a diplomatic gesture.  I wonder how many baths I'll need before it’s actually clean again, if ever? I sit alone in a dark corner of the tavern drinking some stale swill they’re calling ale while trying to regain some semblance of my humanity.

My hair is still damp from the first ‘bath’ I've had in over a week and I’m wearing a donated threadbare dress from Flissa and a coat of Leliana's. Neither fit. The dress is too big in the bust and Leliana’s coat is too small. I squirm under the coat, tugging at the off-shoulder bodice and miss my bra. Clearly, Flissa's wardrobe has been designed for warmer climates and those without nipples.

My jeans, bra, and other clothes are drying over a chair. I’d washed them in my used bathwater, in my new room—it’s the same Chantry cell where I've been imprisoned since there is nowhere else for me to stay in Haven. At least it is quiet and warm, and has a bed with wool blankets, and doesn't smell like that first dungeon. At this point, it’s more than I can ask for, and I’m still indescribably happy that Cassandra did not chop off my head.

A very large, blonde, fur and metal-clad man drops into the seat across from me, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Headache?” I asked.

“ _Maker's breath!_ ” He yelped hoping up from his seat, startling the minstrel into an off-key strum of her lute. “I didn't see you there!”

“Leliana put you up to this, didn't she?” I said in an energy-less tone, hiding behind the rim of my tankard.

“How did you—” his head drops, like a wounded puppy, “are you a— _seer_?”

I cringe and stop myself from rolling my eyes mid-roll. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that his over-reaction gave him away. Obviously, the arts of subtlety are not practiced by the Templars. “Do you have those here? Seers, oracles, the like?” I asked, skeptically.

“I have heard of such things but have never come across any.”

“I'm not, either of those things. But I have some knowledge of this place. I guess the easiest way I can describe it is that your world is like a fairy tale or a history book, that I read in my world.”

There isn't much point in shying away from the fact that I _knew_ things and _would_ _know_ things about this place. However, I did _not_ want to set myself up as some sort of prophet—they already had one Herald of Andraste, that was more than enough—and I wasn't comfortable inserting myself into _that_ public of a role. Otherwise, I'd find some way to fuck that up spectacularly.

“But my being here might change all of that. I'm  _not supposed_  to be  _here_.”

“I... _volunteered,_ ” he sighed, admitting his reason for sitting with me. “I had yet to meet you and—you've been the source of much debate among the council. I admit I was _curious_. My orders,  _such as they are_ , are to talk—and see if you seem to be who you claim to be. Then again, after Kirkwall, it could be said that I'm a horrible judge of character. I— _Maker_. I can sit somewhere else.” He offered, defeated.

“It's fine. Stay. Commiserate. Please? Continue talking to me like I'm a normal human being.” I take another sip of swill. “I'm Kit—not that you didn't know that already—but um, it's nice to meet you.” It came out more like a question than a greeting, but there it was. I’m not crying. For now.

“Alright... I'm the Comman—erm,  _I'm_ —you can call me Cullen.” He sputtered, his cheeks turning pink and smiles uncomfortably. He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck. “I'm sorry. Forgive me.  _Us._  We should have handled it— _you,_  better.  _All_  of it. And, for what it's worth, we're— _I'm—_ sorry.”

“If I'm honest,” I sighed, “and I was in your position—I think... I think I would have done  _much_  worse. Although, that doesn't make being on the receiving end feel any better.” I swiped, impatiently, at a tear that escapes the corner of my eye. “Sorry. I'm still a bit shell-shocked.”

“I—” He stammered, clearly at a loss at my show of emotion or how to help, and is interrupted by a serving girl who chooses this poignant moment to bring us two more mugs of swill. She giggles and blushes, bending much lower and slower than necessary to hand the Commander his mug. “She didn't ask for coin...”

I gave him my best  _you-can-hardly-be-surprised_  glare and he has the decency to blush more, clearing his throat awkwardly. Again.

“Do you think they have a chess set in here?”

“Not that I've seen?” I said, grateful for the change of topic. “Strategy and drinking don't mix well. Plus, I don't know how to play. Some of the soldiers were playing dice out back.”

He scowled. “Games of chance  _and drinking_  don't mix well either.”

“I don't know? I've taken a chance on a number of risky, self-destructive opportunities while drinking.”

He smirked over his mug. “What will you do now? Now that you're free, I mean?”

“I don't know?” I groan and rub my forehead. The very idea of staying in this world gives me a headache.  “I haven't really thought about it? I don't really have what you'd call marketable skills.” I paused and sniffled, wiping at more tears, “Or even have  _basic life skills_  in this world. I'm a food-blogger  _for Chrissakes_ —I can't fight, or heal, or do  _anything_  that could be useful to your cause. And, after— _everything_ —I _really_ don’t want to stay  _here_  but I also don't know where else I can go and not end up begging in the streets?”

Cullen stares at me. Silent. And I feel the helplessness of my situation erupt to the surface. I just want to be home. Things weren’t great there… I mean, I have been crashing at my ex-fiancée’s place while searching for a new one of my own, and the implosion of that relationship had been devastating—but what I wouldn’t give for _some_ normalcy, right now! Even if that meant heartbreak and squatting.

“And I really miss my cat!” I wailed, covering my face with my hands, helpless to stop a renewed surge of tears.

“I— _erm_...” He begins, then pushes his chair back from the table, the legs scraping against the rough plank floors, and he is gone. I cry harder, knowing that I’ve just scared-off the one person—the _only_ person—who I’ve managed to have a semi-normal conversation with, in all of fucking Fereleden.

Two minutes later, Cullen is back. His return announced by the renewed scraping of his chair across the floorboards, interrupting my dispirited reverie. I look up just as he sets two new mugs on the table.

“ _First_ , this is  _Ferelden Ale_ , not that cheap sheep's piss they've been giving us for free.  _Second,_  I spoke with Flissa and she's in need of help. You can start tomorrow if you're interested.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	5. Another One Bites the Crust

I take a deep, fortifying breath the moment I’m out of the warm tavern, and my body seizes in a coughing fit. Haven is so cold that it hurts to breathe. Icy wind slaps me in the face. I can feel the air betray my lungs, as I walk toward the training ground, my breath turning into stabby little needles of ice inside my alveolus. I’m confident that I will end up with some un-obscure Ferelden malady like nug-flu or Lotheringian pneumonia—all the while, I mentally curse Flissa’s fear of Cassandra and the Commander—really, _anyone_ with a sword, which is like the majority of the populace in Thedas except Chantry Sisters—for sending me on this fool’s errand.

The Herald is already there—dressed in skin-tight leather or whatever the Theodosian equivalent of buckskin is, which emphasizes the sharp angles of her lithe elven body to perfection—discussing something with the Commander. I tug at my too-small donated coat, feeling the inadequacy of my situation more than ever—as well as _every_ imperfection of my very human body. A blush that has nothing to do with cold stains his cheeks bright red. Cullen shifts from foot to foot as if he is forcing himself not to flee, looking more and more uncomfortable as their conversation progresses. He must be _freezing_. She looks like she’s pulled him mid-training session for this impromptu tête-à-tête and is without his usual cape or other trappings.

“...also expected to give up— _physical temptations_?” I hear her ask over the rings and scrapes of metal on metal.

“ _Physical_?” his voice breaks and he clears his throat, and uses his training shield as a makeshift barrier between them. “Why—”

I stop. I’m unsure if I should interrupt or not. I have never liked this particular conversation thread in-game and witnessing the exchange, as an outsider and in-person, is even more— _violating_. Levellan, for all her inappropriateness, looks up at the Commander eagerly—like a teenager with her first crush. She is no doubt speaking before thinking. There’s even less doubt that she’s interpreting his blushes, stammering, and overall awkwardness as a reflection of mutual inexperience rather than his obvious mortification and discomfort.

“Why would you... that's... not... _expected_ ,” he hedges, recovering himself— _slightly,_ _then falling back on his training he replies in a pure academic recitation,_ “templars can marry although there are rules for such things. The order must grant permission. Some may choose to give up— _more,_  to prove their devotion, but it's not required.”

“Have you?” She continued, oblivious to his unease, and the whole of the Commander's face turns completely scarlet while a blood vessel pulses in his temple.

“Goddamn, that's invasive,” I mutter, earning a sharp look from Lavellan and the wide-eyed panic of the Commander. I have serious concerns that he might just have a stroke—or at the very least pass out from embarrassment.

“Me? I'm...uh—I've—”

“I don’t mean to interrupt what’s obviously a _very private_ conversation. I can come back... later.” I offer when Cullen’s hand clamps around my upper arm like a vise and he drags me to his side.

“Uh, no. I've taken no such vows. Maker's breath.” He answers in a rush of words. “Can we speak of something else? Otherwise, it seems there are other matters which require my attention.”

“That's all I wanted to know.” Lavellan murmurs, glaring daggers at me, before scurrying away.

“Please let go of my arm now.” I wheeze.

“ _Makersbreathankyou!_ I'm sorry!” He said in an explosion of garbled words. “That was—”

“—grossly inappropriate?” I supplied.

“Please tell me you're  _not_  here to ask me something personal?”

“Nope. I'm all business.” I smile, holding out a list.

“I'm glad to hear it.” He said warily, observing the field of blades swinging in front of us and shouting words of encouragement and correction.

“I'm sorry.” He apologized, clearly having mentally dismissed me and forgotten I was there, “what is it you needed?”

“Business,” I repeat, still holding my list, looking foolish while my arm grows tired.

He stares at me patiently, as if I haven’t been holding a requisition in front of him the entire time and I swear it’s his way of trying to regain control of the situation.

“Right. So, Flissa—needs help establishing a supply line for the tavern. She's provided the details—and I, um, added a couple things.” I said wiggling the paper at him. “I hope it won't be too much trouble?”

“This is relatively simple.” He observed, finally relieving me of my parchment burden. “I'll see what I can do. Why didn't she come here herself?”

“I think she's intimidated by you and Cassandra,” I said, eyeing my former captor who is in the process of whittling down yet another training dummy with her sword.

“You're— _not_?” He said, looking at me skeptically.

“I'm thirty-five,” I said as if that is an actual reason rather than being thickheaded and possessing no skills of self-preservation. “I am much too old for that shit.”

He makes an uncharacteristic sound of surprise, and shakes his head, “I would have thought you much, much younger.”

“It's the immaturity. Really throws people off.” I explain and looked around for a moment. “You’ll need to fix the trebuchets,” I said, staring at the precarious snowpack that tops the mountains.

Remembering.

Remembering just how defenseless this little matchstick town of Haven is under the brute force of an entire army. Remembering how Haven goes up in flames without so much as a by-your-leave let alone a protest. Most of all, remembering the deluge of snow that obliterates the last burning remnants of a place that so many have come to know as their last and only refuge.

Knowing that we are all on borrowed time in Haven, I forget why I’m there and walk away. A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the sub-freezing temperatures. Being a real person, with no survival skills, in Haven is going to be a real bitch when Corypheus and his dragon show up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a world where the majority of Mary-Sue female protagonists is firmly under the age of 30, and more often than not closer to 18-22, I'm sure some of you are appalled/put-off at this one being the "ripe-old-age" of 35. Age is just a number (especially in fiction, so picture her as young as you like), but for the sake of this narrative, I wanted Kit to be older than the Commander's 30-ish and significantly enough that it would tip the dynamic of his military/Inquisitorial seniority in her favor--just a little. Plus I love me a "flawed" protagonist.
> 
> ❤
> 
> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!
> 
> ❤
> 
> Also, it should probably go without saying, but if you're enjoying reading this... please leave some kudos and or a comment. ❤


	6. Penne for Your Thoughts?

“Oomph!” I bounce off a wall of solid muscle into a stone chantry column.

“Maker's breath!” The Commander swore, catching my elbow and jerking me upright. “Are you alright?”

“You're built like a brick shithouse, aren't you?” I asked, rubbing my shoulder—which is probably dislocated, and my arm which will no doubt bear a bruise in the shape of the Commander's fingers in the morning.

“A what—a...a  _what-_ house?” He stammered.

“It's a—you know what? Never mind.” I said as means of explanation. “You look troubled, Commander. You haven't been on the receiving end of more sexual harassment, have you?”

“Maker's breath—we're in the  _Chantry._  And,  _no._ I  _had_ actually forgotten about that... _until now_.” He scowled, and then snaps. “What are you doing out of the tavern?”

“I  _work_  there, I'm not a captive of the kegs. I'm _allowed_ to leave, you know? Plus, I still sleep in that cozy little cell in the basement of your  _Chantry_.”

“That's not—”

“—I know."

“Maker's breath! You're sleeping in the _dungeon?”_

“You're surprisingly uninformed for a _leader_ of this _Inquisition movemen_ t. Why don't you come with me? I'll buy you a drink and you can tell me all about it?”

“I don't think that would be appropriate.” He said, rubbing the back of his neck, then sighing. “Very well...”

“You— _wait_ , what?”

He opens one of the large Chantry doors for me and I trip over the threshold. I didn’t actually expect him to accept. “I was headed there anyway.”

“Has Leliana requested a follow-up?” I ask as we pass the Spymaster’s tent.

“No.” He grumbled, then sighs. Again. “I have been known to relax  _on occasion_ , and it's been a long day.”

To his anti-social credit, once we’re inside the tavern, he chooses a dark corner close to the door. The same spot where we sat last time. Only, now, I sit opposite from him and stretch my legs across the bench, so that no one can join us. Not that they would dare. The Commander is intimidating—or at least, that’s the rumor. Mostly I just see someone who's overworked and curmudgeonly and someone who needs a confidant to share some of his many burdens. 

The same serving girl immediately brings us two mugs of what I’m assuming will be  _Ferelden Ale_ , resuming her giggling and blushing and bending much lower and slower than necessary routine to hand the Commander his mug. The large globes of her breasts nearly spill from her bodice as she leans across the table to _serve_ the Commander. I cannot stop myself from rolling my eyes.

Her name was Bitsy, but I'd soon taken with calling her Titsy—inside my head… okay, maybe not just _inside_ my head—due to her unique serving style. To each their own...she got good tips. I sadly had no physical attributes worth emphasizing and relied solely on my charm and wit to earn the coin which Titsy regularly skimmed from my tables.

“Just hand him the damn mug already. Jesus.” I snap, taking the tankard away from her and shoving it toward him. A lot of the ale spills over the side onto the table. I don’t care.

“If you need anything—” she offered.

“He doesn’t, Titsy. Go away.”

He is nonplussed. Again. “She's very... _odd_?” He said after Titsy glowers at me and then swaggers away.

“Seriously? Have you seen you? You're not used to this by now?”

“Used to what?”

“Women throwing themselves at you?”

“I—er, uh...” He stammered, “... _you_  don't.”

“—Don't what?”

“Throw yourself at me.”

“There does seem to be a handful of women who don't, now that you mention it,” I began counting off on my fingers, “Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine…”

“All women who know me.”

“I'm glad you said it.” I laughed.

“ _Maker_ —I'm pleased you can find such amusement at my expense,” he tried to hide his flush of embarrassment by turning his head and rubbing his neck.

“Me too.”

He cleared his throat. “She didn't ask for coin. _Again._ ”

“Flissa isn't going to charge the _Commander of the Inquisition_ ,” I stated matter-of-factly. “And Titsy—I mean _Bitsy_ —well, she has her own  _agenda_.”

“I'll speak to Flissa. The members of the Inquisition should be treated no different than—”

“—And terrify her more?” I interrupted.

“I spoke with her the last time—”

“—Yeah...She was probably too frightened to say no. In any case, I've been meaning to thank you for doing that—it's nice to have a purpose, however insignificant... So, thank you.  _Again._ ”

“I'm glad I could help—in  _some_  way.” He said, looking uncomfortable with the praise. “Maker, it's hot in here.” He commented, running his fingers through the fur of his scarf and mantle.

“It gets that way in the evening. It takes all day to warm this place up, and at night when there are so many bodies in here it gets unbearable.” I slipped off my jacket and the Commander's gaze immediately lands on my chest.

“That's a nice  _dress?_ ” He croaked.

“Stop.  _Looking._ ” I hiss. I fold my hands over the nearly sheer fabric of the bodice. “It's from Flissa, I can't actually afford to pay for anything since Bitsy keeps pilfering my tips. And, your  _Inquisition_ hasn't exactly been generous when it comes to supplying its exonerated convicts with necessities.”

He blushes but deliberately keeps his eyes above my neckline—mostly. Each time his gaze slips, a flush creeps up his neck and his eyes rocket up—wide and guilty. “I'll speak to the Ambassador.” He mumbled.

“That's not necessary at this point. Just stop  _looking_.” I grab my coat and clutch it to my chest. “How are the headaches?”

“How did you—? It's  _uncanny_  how you do that.”

“Sorry.” I dug into my coat pocket and handed him some satchels of the tea that I'd made from my additions to Flissa's supply line request. “Try these, see if they help? It's willow bark, chamomile, and elfroot. Drop the satchel in hot water until it brews—just like tea. You  _may_  want to add some honey to kill the bitterness, though. But it should help with the headaches. Just don't go too crazy with it, I remember reading that over-using willow bark can cause kidney damage.”

“I thought you weren't a healer?”

“Oh, I'm definitely not... On my blog, I wrote an article about making homeopathic remedies taste better.”

“Honey was the best you came up with?” I knew he didn't understand half of what I had just said, but I was glad to hear that he'd gotten the gist of it.

I choked on my beer. “No. But I assumed you wouldn't be interested in anything that required more effort.”

“You assumed correctly.” He said. “Thank you—for this.”

“No problem. You got me this swanky job after all. It was the least I could do. So, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

He ignored my salacious push for information and deflected. “Tell me about  _your_  world, what does  _'Kit'_  mean?”

“Kit's just a nickname. My parents were both literature majors.  _Big_  fans of poetry. They named me after a collection by William Butler Yeats—he's kind of famous back home—called  _The Countess Kathleen_. I've never really lived up to the seriousness, so Kathleen became Kit for short.”

I stare at him patiently, one eyebrow up, providing time to reciprocate, my elbow on the table and chin resting in my palm. Cullen’s cheeks are more hollow in person, I notice as we’re staring each other down in this battle of wills. The candlelight emphasizes the prominence of his cheekbones and the stubble he’s never without. The scar is less noticeable but staring at it makes me think thoughts that are entirely outside of the friend-zone—because he’s Cullen fucking Rutherford—so I pay as little attention to it as possible. Last, the dark purple shadows that circle his eyes from his sleep-deprived nights make his amber eyes seem downright ethereal. He’d probably be mortified to see the ramen noodle hair he was given in Origins—his hair has curl but it’s not Justin Timberlake circa 1998.

“Fine. Maker. I  _should not_  be telling you this,” he sighs and looks around, then leans in—he’s got _that look,_  like a little kid who just has to tell someone about the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figure he got as an early birthday present that he's not supposed to tell anyone about, or he’s gonna burst. Remembering Cullen in the game, and seeing Cullen now, I don’t think he has anyone to talk to or confide in? Perhaps Cassandra but she’s so unapproachable, especially for Cullen—who she recruited. And, aside from the Inquisitor... potentially. Although, he didn’t seem particularly interested in pursuing that option earlier. It was hard to imagine confiding in someone so young. In a way, I feel like we’re two kindred spirits—two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl…wait, _no_ —rather, we’re two people connecting over the inability to connect with anyone else in all of fucking Ferelden. “We've formed an alliance with  _the_   _mages_.”

 _So soon?_ “Shit,” I said and feel the color drain from my cheeks.

“We should have picked the Templars!” He growled.

“No, that's not it,” I tell him. He stirs in his seat readying to stomp away or was physically preparing to list all the redeeming qualities of the Templars. I grab his arm which is so hard that I suspect he might be wearing armor under his clothes, hoping to pin him down.

“Cullen,  _listen_  to me—Haven will be attacked. You won't be prepared. Talk to Roderick and find out about the pilgrimage path. The summer one. Get as many supply wagons as you can ready in the tree line beyond the chantry, and a lot of blankets and coats—really  _anything_  to keep people warm. It's the only thing you can't be adequately prepared for but you can do  _something_.”

He stares at me like I’m crazy. A worrisome crazy, but crazy nonetheless.

“Tell everyone it's a drill, okay? Look—if I'm wrong, then you might look foolish. If you're wrong, then we're all _dead._ ”

His mouth opens and closes like a fish. It’s clear he doesn’t know how to respond or he even believes me.

“When will she close the breach?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Oh—God. I should have said something sooner.” I ran outside, vomiting in the snow. My tankard still full. It was then that he started to take me seriously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	7. Butter Luck Next Thyme

“I told the council what you told me,” Cullen said, looking grim from our position upon a rocky outcrop at the end of the path from the tavern. “If you're right about this, you'll have saved more lives than—“

“—let's survive before you start crediting me with saving a bunch of lives? Somehow I don't think you'll be thanking me later.” I shrug between shivers. “Maybe I'll be wrong about this? Maybe my being here will change things enough that Haven can be saved.”

“You talk about it as if— _Maker._ ” He’s cut short was we see the faint glow of torches crest the snow-laden mountains, at the same time, mere seconds before the lookout rings the alarm. “Get to the Chantry.  _Now!_ ”

I do, along with a hundred or so other villagers, mages, clergy, merchants and their families, as well as a handful of guards who’ve been ordered to defend us—Haven's most vulnerable. Most are terrified. Some cry. Some scream. Some wet themselves or get sick in corners. Petty arguments break out among the panicked crush of bodies. The smell, the noise, and the heat from too many people is too much. I run down into the dungeon and the relative safety of my cell, where I begin dressing in every layer of clothing I own or have borrowed and wait for the evacuation to begin.

The journey, rather the escape, is worse than I could have ever imagined. We wade through knee-deep snow, up the sheer face of a mountain, at a pace so slow it was impossible to stay warm. Frostbite is a concern that pales in comparison to hypothermia or worse, becoming separated from the herd. The fear of abandonment and death are more worrisome than potentially losing a digit or two—that really tends to put things into perspective. More than once I felt myself sinking further into the white due to the weight of my meager bag of belongings—mostly all the blankets I could find, two books that had been discarded in the tavern, and Cullen's headache tea—all of which I am tempted to toss into the nearest snowdrift, of which there are many.

When we finally made camp for the night, it was near dawn. I place my bag in a tent shared with Flissa and Titsy. Then wander off. Despite having walked miles, uphill, in the snow for hours, I’m not in a state to sleep. I find Cullen pacing where he can keep vigil in the general direction of Haven. He is looking for the Herald, or the Red Templar army, or the archdemon, or all of them, no doubt. I tell him about cars and airplanes, to let him know I've survived—if he even cares—to try to get him to think of something else.

“Why are you telling me this, Kit? Did you know about the fucking dragon? Did you think to mention  _that_?” He is, understandably, furious. Panting. Face close enough that I can count the stubble along his clenched jaw.

“You didn't believe me when I said that Haven would be attacked, but _a dragon_ —that's  _the thing_  that would have made it  _more_  believable for you? A. Fucking. Dragon? Are you fucking serious?” I yell back, physically pushing him away, drawing the curious stares of camp members.

“We could have died! She might be dead!  _You_  could have—“ He stomped toward me, closing the distance between us.

“ _Me_? Who the hell cares if _I_ die?” I asked throwing my hands up and looking around in a mock search.

“I—”

“— _We_  didn't die. _Y _ou__  didn't die.  _S _he__  didn't die.”

“How do you know? She's been missing—”

“Because she's right fucking there, Cullen!” I yell, pointing at the faint shimmer of green light that sparks in the distance.

“Maker's breath.  _She's_ —”

“—alive,” I confirm.

He yells for Cassandra and is running—as much as he can through the knee-deep snow—toward the flickering emerald glow of the Herald.

I trudge back to the tent, only to find my bag outside, books and tea-tin strewn on the snowpack and my pallet occupied by Titsy with _all_ of  _my_  blankets. Titsy who steals my tips. Titsy who had watched me place my bag on the bedding. Titsy who wanted me to know that while the Herald had been forgiven for falling out of the rift—I was just collateral damage who wasn't important enough for anyone to care if I froze to death inside, or outside of this camp.

I swallowed my emotions as best I can as I stuff my belongings back into my bag, the splash-back of something stronger than static electricity zapping my hand as I come in contact with the tea tin.

“Shitfuckingfuck!” I hiss, as a blue-violet crackle of electricity arcs between my fingers. I glare at Titsy's back for a moment, debating whether I should or shouldn't or even if I _can_ , and look around. Solas stands at the edge of the camp, mostly out of sight, a smug smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he watches me.

I break eye contact and shake the unwelcome tingle of magic from my hand and finish my packing. Then I stomp over to my former cot and rip my blankets free from the warm cocoon of one complacent and snoring Titsy.

“Get your _own_ fucking _blankets_ you tip snatching _twat_.” I spit over the singing that had spontaneously erupted outside the tent and march away—victorious. Admittedly, I would have preferred a more clever insult but it was the only one I had at the moment and my wounded pride demanded some form of petty verbal acknowledgment be made.

“Maker, Kit... What are you still doing out here? Why aren't you in a tent?” Cullen reprimands after the singing crowd disperses. I snuggled deeper into my blankets as the cold ground leeches all the body heat from my ass, even through the blankets that I'd pillowed beneath me. I take another sip of Cullen's tea for my own splitting headache and hand him the mug to finish. He does, without question.

“They didn't want me,” I grumbled, shivering and wiggling closer to the bonfire.

“They didn't want— _Maker's breath._  I'll be right back.”

He wasn't _right back_  but he did eventually return. “Come with me.” He said begrudgingly. He takes me to a spacious tent that even has a brazier lit inside. “You can use this one until other arrangements can be made.”

“This is your tent… isn't it?”

“It is—the  _least_  I can do.” He sighed. Cullen looks at me for a moment, rubs the back of his neck and turns to leave.

“You're not staying?” I ask.

He sighed again. I haven’t given much thought to how tired he must be, but he looks like he’s about to drop. “Kit... we have wronged you in so many ways and then we failed to help you in every way. The last thing you deserve are the rumors that will begin if we stay in there _together_. I'll bunk with the infantry. After losing Haven, Maker knows, they'll need the boost in morale.”

I shrug not fully comprehending the stigma that might be attached to those rumors, being from a society that was _mostly_ liberated enough to understand that a woman’s virtue and her self-worth aren't mutually exclusive and being that I am persona non grata of the future Inquisition as it is, “I'm staying in your tent. There are going to be rumors, anyway.”

“I know and I'm sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	8. Mushroom for Improvement

The first week at Skyhold, before the lower courtyard was cleared to open the Herald's Rest, was a challenge. The fortress, castle, whatever it was supposed to be was, at best, a big fucking dump when we arrived. My days were filled with the mind-numbing physical labor of clearing debris and helping to make the fortress habitable. However, I had nothing but my solitude and the books I stole from Flissa’s tavern to keep me company in the evenings.

The council is constantly busy with missions, establishing supply and communication lines, managing repairs, and meetings, so much so that I haven't seen any of them—except for Cullen who is stationed visibly in the middle of the courtyard and is swarmed with an impenetrable number of soldiers and messengers. I’m not sure that he slept at all, during that first week. He was visible in the courtyard from the time I would crawl from my tent and still there when I crawl back in at night.

The journey to Skyhold had not been better than the initial escape from Haven. After the Inquisitor— _oops,_  not quite yet—the  _Herald_ , miraculously recovered after no more than six hours of sleep, from her battle with a red-lyrium corrupted arch-demon and an avalanche, she then led us tirelessly through the snow-blanketed Frostbacks to the salvation of Skyhold. There’s little doubt that Solas sure as shit worked some really magical magic to get her up and running again.

Everything had been white and bitterly cold, for days. North, south, east, west, snow as far as the eye could see. Up and down, white was everywhere. My breath was a white puff on each exhale. Even the sun had been a pale version of itself in the milky sky. I'd followed the well-worn path of the pack animals and wagons, so I'd no longer wasted my energy slogging through knee-deep snow. Careful to step around the interruption of bronto droppings, a sad but welcome—and literal—splash of color that disrupted the otherwise white monotony.

Although the Herald had rejoined our ranks, morale was low and despair was high. I quickly learned to focus solely on my own progression forward and to stay with the group rather than fixate on anyone around me—the hungry, the weary, the sick or the injured, or simply those who sat in the snow and elected to die rather than take another step in favor of an unknown future—to do so was to jeopardize my own will to survive.

Cullen had campaigned on my behalf among the Inquisition council during the journey, and one by one they'd stopped to talk to me each day. I'd become so accustomed to my solitude that the social interaction was more exhausting than the all-day-long mountain treks. I collapsed each night in the Commander's tent while he slept out in the elements amongst the recruits and infantry. The brief attempt to destigmatize me hadn't lasted long enough to take effect—and I found myself, once again, a social outcast once we'd ceased wandering the mountains.

The only folks who were actually willing to speak to me were either council members or the Inquisitor's companions—all of whom were inundated with the initial burdens of Inquisition business. Instead, I often took to walking the parapets and battlements or finding a cozy spot to read Hard in Hightown for the third time since we had arrived, making sure to hand the Commander a cup of his tea on my way, until I stumbled back into my tent where sleep claimed me.

Tonight, was more of the same, after dinner, I make Cullen a cup of tea and set it on his makeshift desk as I pass by for my evening walk.

“I'll need an update on the armory as well.” He snapped at the last messenger, who stared at him dumbfounded. “Now!” I hear him yell at the messenger before warm fingers circle around my wrist while I enter the alcove under the stone steps that lead up to the keep.

“We set-up as best we could at Haven... We could never have prepared for an archdemon, or whatever that thing was... with your warning we— _you_ saved— _Maker!_   _Everyone here_ owes you their life.”

I shake my head, “you're the one who acted on my warning. You—”

“Maker's breath! I'm  _trying_  to apologize— _let_  me.”

I look up into his shadowed eyes and pressed my hand along the soft stubble of his jaw. “You look like shit, Commander. When was the last time you slept? Or ate?”

His eyes close and he presses his cheek into my palm. “I— _um—I_...do you have to make this so difficult?” He stutters, his tone softening. I wonder just how tired he is as he rubs his face against my hand like a cat—a very un-Commander-like gesture of affection and one that seems much more than friendly. He tugs my hand, reluctantly, from his cheek before continuing. His voice is barely above a whisper. “I shouldn't have spoken to you the way I did, after Haven. Without you, we would have been caught completely unawares.  _Maker… w_ e would have been  _slaughtered._ It was wrong of me to speak to you thus—and I'm sorry.”

“I'm glad you survived.” I smiled at him, his fingers still wrapped around my wrist. I’m glad that we’ve seemingly reconciled with an official apology after he lashed out at me post-Haven, but sleepy Cullen also seems to blur the boundaries of typical friend-like behavior. Right now, Cullen is looking at me as if the _last thing_ he wants is to be _friends_ —which is _obviously_ the result of some serious sleep deprivation. I take a step back. “You probably need to get back to Inquisition things,” I nod toward a messenger that eyes us both suspiciously.

“What now?” He grumbled, to the messenger, releasing me from his grasp.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	9. I'm so Eggcited

“We don't serve  _food_.” I hear Cabot say in the tone he uses on me when he has to repeat himself, just as I walk into the Herald's Rest.

“Cook doesn't want it,” the Inquisitor pleads.

“Good Morning!” I announce, to glances and nods from Cabot, the Inquisitor and the morning drinkers—mostly members of the Chargers. Apparently, a functioning liver isn't a necessary component to the survival of a mercenary, then again, they probably don't expect to live long enough for it to matter. Maryden begins to say something enthusiastic until she realizes that my greeting is in-general, and not meant specifically for her. She returns to tuning her lyre or lute or ukulele or mouth organ— _whatever_.

“We don't serve food,” Cabot repeats.

“What's up?” I ask the bickering duo. Not that the Inquisitor _bickered_ , ever. She is much too timid to bicker. Honestly, I don't know how the former hunter even managed to kill dinner, let alone demons. Probably apologized the entire time she was doing it. Probably why she was also, so damn skinny.

“We killed a druffalo and no one wants it.”

“We do,” I said.

“We _don't,_ ” Cabot insisted.

“Aw, Cabs— _everyone_  keeps complaining about how horrible the food is here. Let's give them another option.”

“Stop calling me  _Cabs_.”

“I've been begging you to let me cook—something.  _Anything_. We have a kitchen and you use it as a storeroom...”

“We serve drinks.  _Not food._ ” He crossed his arms, exposing a forest of chest hair beneath the gape in his shirt. I wonder, between he and Varric, who might out-chesticle each other.

“You know... she is your boss. She could just make you take it?”

“And I'm  _your_ boss. I could just make you fired?” He reminded.

“That is an excellent point,” I said, dropping the matter entirely.

“Fine.” He grumbled to the Inquisitor. “Leave the druffalo. This one,” he said, jabbing his thumb in my direction, “can do something with it. Just. This.  _Once_. And  _only_ because  _my boss_  is in a bind.”

“Excellent! I'm going to need a few more ingredients.” I said.

Cabot groaned. “I was afraid you would say that...”

Four hours later, I was stirring the biggest cauldron—for lack of a better word—of stew I'd ever made when Leliana's head popped around the corner.

“Maker, Kit! Is that what I think that is?”

I nodded. “Druffalo Bourguignon.”

She inhaled deeply. “I  _knew_  it. I could smell the faintest whiff in the tower. I haven't had bourguignon since I came to Ferelden before the fifth blight. It smells of home. If yours is half as good as I remember...” She sighed, lost in her own thoughts.

“That is one of my favorite parts about cooking—aside from eating, I mean—the smells. It's impossible to have bad memories with good food.”

“Is that true?”

“I don't know?” I confessed. “But, my kitchen—my rules.”

“ _My_  kitchen.  _My rules_ , Kit.” Cabot corrected from the opposite side of the wall. “Ancestors preserve me! You can smell that mess through the _whole_ courtyard.”

“I just want to savor this moment. Can I stay? Do you need help?” she asked, ignoring the obstinate proprietor, and giving me a glimpse of the far less terrifying version of herself that she’d been in Origins.

“If you'd like, I have some garlic and parsnips that need to be mashed.”

“Darling, if that tastes half as divine as it smells you will be  _a triumph._ ” Vivienne purred from the doorway. “Sister Nightingale, what  _are_  you doing?”

“Mashing… parsnips.” Grunted the redhead.

“Very well,” Vivienne sighed, rolls up her sleeves and directs a stern warning at me. “If you  _ever_  mention that the First Enchanter of Montsimmard was in some lowly _tavern kitchen_ —

“—I heard that!” Grumbled Cabot, insulted.

“—mashing root vegetables—I will  _ruin_ you.” She finished as if the very owner of _some lowly tavern_ wasn’t right within earshot and wasn’t deeply offended by her snobbery.

“No one would believe me if I did.” I comforted, as she flicked her wrist and the parsnips were pureed—instantly. My mouth dropped open. “Can you—show me how to do that?”

“Certainly  _not_ , my dear. First, you'd have to be _a mage_. And second, the Mistress of the Duke of Ghislain has no knowledge of such  _menial_  spells. Someone else would have to show you.”

In the end, it _was_ a triumph. Then again, in a country where aspics and boiled potatoes were the height of flavor and sophistication, anything I made was probably going to taste like a gastronomic miracle.

The tavern had been filled beyond capacity. Cabot begrudgingly lessened his, “no food” policy. Instead, he permitted me to cook  _one_  dish per night under the auspices of calling it the “Herald's Special.”

While it seemed that I, had finally managed to carve a niche for myself within the Inquisition.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	10. It Takes Two to Mango

“Gloat all you like, I have this one.” I heard Cullen say, as I snipped another sprig of rosemary. I looked up to see the Commander facing off with Dorian over a chessboard under the garden arbor.

“Are you sassing me, Commander?” Dorian teased, his bronze shoulder bare to the cool mountain breeze. Somehow the garden is warmer than the rest of Skyhold, but not by much and we are in the Frostbacks. It is just barely warm enough for things to grow. “I didn't know you had it in you?”

“Why do I even—Inquisitor!”

I shiver beneath my newly acquired plaidweave shawl that I was able to buy from Belle with my _own_ money. Too bad she didn’t sell bras. I’d continued to wear mine even after the underwires had sprung free of their cups, but months of strain with neither laundry detergent nor fabric softener had proven to be too much. The elastic had finally refused to ‘elast’ and holes had eroded that was beyond mending. My old faithful brassière could no longer be saved and had to be put down once and for all.

 “Leaving are you? Does this mean I win?” Dorian asked.

“Please, don't stop on my account.” I hear Lavellan add. She’s out of my line of sight, luckily.  I’m not sure that I can stomach her fawning over either man so early in the morning.

“Alright. Your move.” Cullen said.

“You need to come to terms with my inevitable victory,” Dorian goaded. “You'll feel much better.”

“Really? Because I just won, and I feel fine.” Cullen laughed.

“Ugh. Don't get smug. There will be no living with you.” Dorian said, defeated.

“I should return to my duties as well unless you would care for a game?” I heard Cullen ask. I continued cutting the herbs I need for tonight's special at the tavern. “Kit?”

“Huh?” I said, dropping my knife into a neighboring overgrowth of elfroot, “Shit.”

“What are you doing, sneaking around back there? Would you like to join me for a game?” He asked, laughing at my clumsiness.

“Sorry, I thought you were talking to the Inquisitor?” I grunt, feeling around for the sharp blade in the minty bitterness while trying not to cut myself. Good thing it has healing properties.

“She left with Dorian.” He smiled, resetting the board.

I frowned. “And, I wasn't sneaking... I’m being discrete.”

“Not from where I was sitting.”

“I'm collecting herbs for _the Herald's Special_ ,” I said, haughtily, catching the handle of my blade. It’s warm from where it’s been nestled against the earth. I assume the ground in the gardens is enchanted. It would explain why things are growing and not completely snow covered at the top of a mountain.

His eyebrow raises, skeptically. “That doesn't explain why you're sneaking around the potagerie.”

“I didn't want to be noticed.” I whisper-yell, one hand on my hip while accidentally pointing at him my newly found knife with the other.

He snorts. “That's not possible...”

“Thank you  _so_  much.” I scowl.

“I—“

“—Cabot doesn't have a garden and the  _chef_  doesn't actually use this one... so I thought I'd  _borrow_  a few things.” I sniff the leaves closest to me unsure if they’re basil or just something a cat pissed on—do they even have basil in Thedas? I sniff and look again. Nope. Not basil.

“Will you be _returning them_ when you're done?”

“Well... _no_.”

“That means you're stealing, Kit.”

“This is _public property_ for Skyhold's residents—is it not?”

“The gardens are for the  _viewing_  pleasure of the residents.”

I huffed and tapped my foot.

“If you're _not_ doing something wrong, then why were you sneaking around like Sera?”

“Have you ever heard  _that woman_  when she's mad?” I hissed. “She makes Corypheus' archdemon look like a puppy.”

“Why would she be mad, if you aren't stealing from her?”

I scowled. “You summoned me for a reason,  _Commander_?”

He smiled again, having proved himself victorious for a second time today, he switched the subject back to his initial inquiry. “I can teach you—if you'd like? To play chess, I mean.”

“You can try?” I grimaced, taking the seat across from him. “My ex—erm... _former suitor,_  said I didn't have the head for strategy games.” He'd also said I was  _sexually repressed_ , but I doubted that Cullen was interested in learning  _that_ much.

“I was raised with the notion that suitors were supposed to be charming?”

I rolled my eyes and shrugged. “It was... _complicated_.”

“Well, the fundamentals of chess are not complicated and if an eight-year-old knob-head like Cullen Stanton Rutherford could learn how to play, then you'll do fine.” He smiled.

“I think my penchant for self-depreciation may be rubbing off on you,” I suggest.

“The pawn, that's this piece, moves forward...” He is patient through his tutorial, explaining which pieces are which, and how they move across the board. As we progress to actually playing the game, he tells me of his family in Honnleath and how he used to play chess with his elder sister, Mia.

“I believe this one is yours.” He said, surrendering his queen. “Until today, I haven't had a moment to play chess since I was back in Kirkwall. We should do this again sometime.”

“You let me win,” I said flatly.

He smiles. “Perhaps one day I'll let you lose.”

I roll my eyes. “I have to get back—thank you for the distraction.”

“We should do this more often.”

“Seriously? My lack of skill level isn't mind-numbingly boring for you?" Noting his amusement I grumble, "yes, fine. We should _absolutely_ do this again sometime.”

I don't know what kind of response I'm expecting or hoping for, but I don't get the wistful  _'You said that...'_  quote and notorious bashful smirk. Instead, he gives me a coy smile that I don’t begin to know how to interpret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!
> 
> If you're enjoying reading this please leave some kudos, or a bookmark and/or a comment. ❤ I'm notoriously bad at responding to comments though... It's not you, it's me. I promise.


	11. Nacho, Nacho Man

“Are we too late?” Josephine asked, just as her head pokes around the door frame of the tavern kitchen.

“Too late for what?” I asked, washing a pan, not looking up.

“Too late for the special?”

“Oh— _wow_. Yes, we sold out  _hours_  ago.” I dry my hands on my apron as I step-out from the behind the walled kitchen area. At this hour the tavern was almost empty—especially on nights like tonight when the Chargers were on assignment with the Inquisitor. I was surprised to see Leliana and Cullen straggling behind as well. It’s late, and though he’s still in his cloak, for warmth, he’s missing his chest-plate and other armor. Leliana and Josephine are similarly informal for the evening, most diplomats and messengers having bedded down for the evening—it’s odd to see them all looking so, _human_ for a change.

She pouted beautifully and sighed. “I worried that would be your response. We received a  _stern reprimand_  from the cook in the kitchens about the dinner hour.”

Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head at whatever Leliana is saying to him. “Long night?” I ask Josephine.

“Long night, long day, long week.”

“I'll whip something up. I've been wanting to try to make something with all this spindleweed. We've crates and crates of the stuff and the Inquisitor just keeps bringing _more_ and—”

Warm metal pressed into my palm, “Don't burn the place down and make sure you lock up when you're done.” Cabot grumbled softly, giving me a key and extinguishes most of the candles and lanterns on his way out. My brain did cartwheels over the trust that had just been—and was finally being—placed in me. I bit back a grin and blinked back some tears. I'd come a long way from status as a prisoner and suspected terrorist.

First, I make sure that Cullen has a cup of _his_ tea. His fingers slip over mine as he takes the mug without letting it hit the table before lifting it to drink. I watch as he literally chugs the contents and hands the empty tankard back with a breathless, _‘thanks’_ before I’ve had a chance to walk away— much to the amusement of the other two council members.

Then, because I don't want them to wait too long for something more elaborate I decide on oeufs en cocotte. I mix cream, mushrooms and white wine in the bottom of each pot in honor of Leliana's Orlesian heritage and so that it’s sophisticated enough for Josephine's discerning palate. Cullen will eat just about anything, so long as it’s put directly in front of him—left to his own devices, well, he’s kind of a disaster at remembering to take care of himself.

I also begin to caramelize some ramps and deep root mushrooms which will be sautéed with some of that damn spindleweed because eating your vegetables is _important_. If we can scrounge up enough eggs, perhaps I can make a huge batch of Quiche Florentine with some of those spinach-like greens for the special tomorrow?

By the time I serve their eggs and greens with a loaf of crusty bread, the tightness around Cullen's eyes has faded. Leliana claps and squeals with delight when she sees the cocottes—or  _pots_ , as we barbaric speakers of Common, pronounce them. Once again reminding me of the softer, sweeter Leliana of Origins. For dessert, I prepare berries in cream, as we have nothing else in abundance nor do we have anything dessert-like. We were a tavern after all—as a general rule, booze _is_ our dessert.

The three invite me to join them during dessert. Cullen makes room on the high backed wooden booth he occupies and I slide in next to him. I've been up since dawn and lack the energy to protest when Leliana and Josephine insist on clearing the table and washing the dishes.

I wake up some unidentifiable time later, other than it is still very dark outside. I’m nestled very comfortably between a pair of very warm, very muscular legs and held secure by a pair of very warm, very muscular arms. Luckily, Leliana and Josephine were no longer around to witness my current predicament.

“Cullen?” I whisper, craning my neck to look up at him. All but two of the tavern lanterns are dark, making him look like all hard angles and shadow. The Adam’s apple in his neck bobs as he swallows and stirs but doesn’t quite wake. I resist the urge to burrow back into his embrace and finish sleeping through the night just as we are—where we are. Rumors wouldn’t be much given that we’d be found fully clothed but alas there’d be enough that Cullen would be _very_ embarrassed, especially if he stayed only because I fell asleep on him like a tool.

“Kit...” He mumbled.

“Cullen, wake up. We fell asleep.” I repeat with more volume, pushing away from him.

“Smell... good.” There’s no way I smell good. I’ve been cooking and cleaning in a hot kitchen for the last eight hours without a break and at best I still reek of sautéed onions and spindleweed.

A warm palm covers my breast, and a very male—very contented sigh purred against my ear. I clamp my traitorous thighs together and fail to bite back a needy noise that happens when my breath catches. I do actually manage to stifle the urge to press myself into the hand that was molded so intimately against my breast—sort of—until his fingers curl around my nipple and tug. My mind blanks and I find myself jackknifing off the bench, chest arched into his hand, eagerly seeking more. The rational part of me realizes that my response is probably due to my overall loneliness and distinct lack of physical contact with _anyone_  since I'd floundered out of the fade.

Aside from Cabot, Cullen has been my one and _only_ friend. I don't want to muddy these waters. Besides, it still seems as if the majority of his affection is due to a mixed blend of guilt and pity.

“Cullen!” I snap at him, barely able to catch my breath. He blinks at me with clouded eyes, turning his head just-so, enough to press his lips against mine. My resolve—dissolves. Utterly.

One moment I am dragged against him, prone in the wooden pew, moaning as his tongue slides against mine, his hands tangling in my hair as he slants his mouth over mine deepening our kiss. The next thing I know we are standing upright and apart.

“Sorry.” He murmurs sleepily, raking his hand through his hair before he shuffles away toward the door without so much as another word or any acknowledgment in my direction.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	12. Can't We Just Get Oolong?

“She should be locked up! _Again_!" The cook roared, barging us into the War Room without knocking. Rather she barged and dragged me behind her like a limp doll. "She should be flogged!”

The Inquisitor and her three startled advisors looked up just in time to see me thrown bodily into the large war table, scattering makers as I tried to catch myself from face planting into Redcliffe. “Huh, from this angle Lake Calenhad really does look like a bunny—“

“—I demand she be put in irons!” She howled.

“Okay. Let's all take a deep breath and calm down—“ I said, righting my shirt.

“What is this about?” Asked Josephine.

“She's been  _stealing_ from my garden  _for weeks_!” The round woman fumed.

“I cut _some_ herbs. And she never uses them. That's hardly  _stealing._ ” I looked to Cullen guiltily, who raised one very judgmental I-told-you-so eyebrow. I returned his raised eyebrow with some side-eye and added a scowl for good measure.

“Aren't the gardens meant for everyone's use in Skyhold?” Lavellan asked.

“Exactly!” I agreed.

“Shut it— _knife ear_!”

The room explodes into action. Leliana had a blade at the woman's throat before I see her move. Young Lavellan throws herself into my arms in tears.

“I will _end_ you.” The Orlesian hissed, causing the larger woman to blanch and whimper. The chef stays exactly where she stands, in the middle of the room, with Leliana pressed to her back like cheese on a pizza, as a ribbon of red dribbles from her third chin.

Cullen is at the door calling for the guards to escort the _former_ cook from Skyhold while Josephine tries to talk Leliana out of filleting the rotund racist before the guards can arrive. Suddenly, Lavellan peels away from me and has latches herself around Cullen’s waist. He looks to me, startled, hands outstretched as if bracing for a fall and taps the top of her head in the most un-soothing gesture I’ve ever seen. He’s so unintuitive at giving her any sort of comfort it’s painful to watch the pair as she snuggles closer to him. It’s unclear if he’s genuinely inept at providing human to human comfort or if he’s desperately trying to fail so that _his boss_ will end this unprofessional exchange. Whichever it is, it doesn’t work. Lavellan is clueless—or she just doesn’t care. I’m guessing it’s probably the latter because there are any number of women within the castle grounds who would give _any_ excuse to be pressed up against the chiseled abdominal wall of the Commander for the amount of time she’s been exploiting.

I can’t help but wonder, as I watch the two of them together if I should be doing something more to encourage a romance between them? She is, after all, the Inquisitor. Although young, she is the one that he’s supposed to end up with—then again, she has the option of ending up with Solas, Blackwell, Sera, and any number of other Inquisitorial members. Cullen isn’t the be-all and end-all of her romance options.

Rather I was fuming with jealousy after that smooth-as-shit tongue-down he gave me in the tavern earlier in the week, that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. His response toward me since then has been so _normal_ , that I wonder if he even remembers that the kiss happened—or if he was still so half asleep when it happened that he thought the whole thing was a dream?

At some point, during all this contemplation, the former chef was pried from Leliana’s clutches and the wicked curve of her karambit from the disgraced woman’s throat. Immediately following I’m promoted to head chef or cook— _whatever_ it was called—of Skyhold. Really, I not sure if it was meant to be a reward or a punishment.

“I'll go tell Cabot...I'm sorry to be the source of so much— _drama_.” I offer weakly, stepping out of the room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	13. Orange You Glad to See Me?

Four hangry voices collided into what has been appointed as  _my_  kitchen only several hours before. And then silence, as the door crashes open, the four of them stand in the entry looking around confused.

“You're not—you're not cooking!” Leliana gasped.

“I'm not cooking.” I agree, looking up from my seat at the wooden prep table surrounded by piles of ledgers, ingredients, spices, and recipes.

“But you're always cooking—“ Josephine blurts.

It’s true. Cooking is the one thing that has set me apart in this world. I have no other special abilities to call on, granted I had shown the _slightest_ bit of magical ability—ineptitude—but apart from zapping things with something akin to static electricity pretty much amounted to a throwaway skill in my book. And, I am certainly no political mastermind. Cooking, however, was so innate to me that doing so had not only given me purpose but it had also become cathartic in its own way. It has been the one constant in my upended life. Feeding others not only felt good but it was also _doing_ good— _helping_ , as Cole would say.

Frequently, the overlong War Room meetings had relocated to my kitchen, formerly in the tavern, for an impromptu meal and my sage words of wisdom—mostly the food as I couldn't offer much in the realm of sage beyond what I added to sausage or stuffing. Still, it was a lot of winning for this former food blogger, especially since I had once worried if I was going to have to work at The Pearl to survive in this place. Let’s face it, being that I had absolutely no other skills of worth to fall back on in this world that left me with, literally falling on my back and spreading my legs to survive—an option I was hoping to _never_ to have to explore. And, being that Denerim was all the way across the country, and given my luck thus far in Ferelden upon arrival as a nearly executed political prisoner, who knew if I could actually survive that entire cross-country journey? I had some reasonable doubts.

“—at the tavern, yes, but _this?_ “ I said waving my arms around for emphasis, “Is a _disaster_. Either I cook for you tonight, or I can make sense of the kitchen stores and inventory so that everyone can eat tomorrow. No wonder that racist hag was always so irritable. She overcomplicated  _everything_. She had no concept of organization or efficiency. The entire kitchen structure is absolute chaos and is one disaster away from imploding. I don't know how she kept things working as long as she did but it's no wonder the kitchen staff has been pulling twelve-hour shifts _every_ day. Not to mention there's not even a modicum of nutritional value—not that anyone in Thedas knows what  _those_ are but you're lucky you all don’t have rickets or scurvy. Not that anyone will know what those are either. Do you even have scurvy here? Oh, and you're _hemorrhaging_ money, by the way, did you know? Have you seen the ledgers? Did you know you're paying to import the same herbs that you have in the garden—that ones I was  _stealing_ —from Antiva and Orlais?”

“I'm sorry.” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose like Cullen. “I have bread and cheese you can toast over the fire, and I could use any spare parchment and ink you have Josephine—I'm sorry, again but I'm just— _exhausted_. I wish cooking for Skyhold could be as simple as the Herald's Specials at the tavern.”

“It can't?” Josephine asked.

“Well, no... Wait— _can it_?” I asked them.

“You're not the only one to be burdened by the inefficiencies of Skyhold's kitchens,” Leliana informed.

“I have seen the ledgers— _and the expense_.” Josephine sighed.

“In that case, why let it go on so long?” I asked.

“We've a backlog of those who require humanitarian aid from the Inquisition. When our choices are to liberate townspeople being forced to mine red lyrium or address Skyhold's mediocre chef, our priorities become clear.” Cullen added.

I scowled at him. “Thank you for trivializing the need for everyone  _here,_  to eat.”

“That's not— _Maker's breath_ —” He swore his cheeks pink.

It was too easy to bait him and while I knew what he was trying to say and agreed, and also immediately felt guilty about my outburst, there was also a perverse measure of satisfaction in having taken down the Commander—and winning a blush in the process. I tried not to gloat outwardly.

“You weren't promoted into this role simply because you can make food that tastes good.” Leliana diffused while managing to deflate my ego in the process.

“How can we help?” Lavellan offered, climbing into a seat at the table and I am further cowed over my petty outburst. Ellana Lavellan is the living embodiment of what the Herald of Andraste should be: selfless, humble, gentle, altruistic and never has a horrible thing to say about anyone— _ever_. Even for that appalling woman who'd called her a knife-ear. Except during that one awful moment in Haven when she was questioning whether Cullen's virginity remained intact—her selflessness shamed and my human flaws. Especially during those moments when I thought her capacity for being the saintly Herald made for a political disaster as Inquisitor.

Cullen offers to toast the bread and cheese, and the three of them resume their argument about Halamshiral, while I make lists for each of them of things, coordination, and cooperation that I require to restore efficiency to the kitchens. In addition, I develop a streamlined meal system to reduce fuss, resources and hopefully workload. Viewing my new role as it had been in the tavern only on a larger scale, helps to keep me from feeling so overwhelmed. And, after a while hearing the names Brialla, Celene, Gaspard, repeated ad nauseum, severs my concentration.

“Why pick any of them?” I grumble, and four pairs of eyes look at me as if broccoli has sprouted from my ears. “What you're suggesting is to try to save your foot by cutting off your arm and your head... Are you not stronger as a whole—with your head, hands, and feet attached—rather than relying on them individually? Why can't the Inquisitor convince the three of them to work together? That way, everyone is represented and everyone wins—especially the Inquisition who gains three times the supporters to help its cause without creating accidental enemies in the process.”  _Take_ that _herbaceous words of wisdom!_

“That's—is  _that_  possible?” Ellana asked her three advisors. “Can I do that?”

“Perhaps she should go with us?” Cullen asked nonchalantly.

“What do you mean, go with you? Go with you where?” I asked, making him cringe—and it was clear that he had been trying for subtle and I’d completely missed the cue.

“Halamshiral.” Whispered the Inquisitor whose lips are pressed into a tight line while she scowls at Cullen and seems entirely un-thrilled with the idea that he’s just invited me along for her dream Orlesian get-away.

“Oh no. You do not want me mucketying it up with the muckety-mucks.” I cringed, doing my best to decline and demonstrate why my lack of tactfulness will not be a great deficit to this important diplomatic mission.

“Orlais is world-renowned for its cuisine, which may be of interest to you?” Josephine said.

“And the  _efficiency_  of its help...” added Leliana, dryly.

“And, I value your insight,” said the Inquisitor, adding to my confusion.

“Don't look at me,” the Cullen shrugged, “I'm just the muscle.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	14. Nacho Problem

I find Orlais and Halamshiral to be as elitist and decadent as I imagined France was its dark days before the storming of the Bastille and the French Revolution. I watch as the indigent and refugees are escorted away from the palace grounds and kept from the main streets of the city, without sparing coin, a loaf of bread, or second glance. And I wonder if the Orlesian masks are used to hide shame as well as faces.

“A measure of a society is found in how they treat their weakest and most helpless citizens.” It was a quote from the American President Jimmy Carter, that I often found myself thinking about while in this strange new land. While the source wasn't really relevant in Thedas, the context certainly was—especially here in Orlais.

A knock sounded at my door. “There you are—”

“—Thank God!” I cry throwing myself against the very solid torso of the Commander of the Inquisition in a very enthusiastic hug.

"Maker!"

“I'm _so_ bored!”

“I, uh...stopped by the kitchen. No one knew who you were,  _or where—_ ” He said, clearing his throat, and peeling my arms away—his eyes darting around the room. “So much purple…”

“—Oh Cullen!” I whined, cringing at my over-familiarity and collapse into a mauve and aubergine damask chair next to the gilded fireplace, hiding my face in my hands. Anything to keep from launching myself at him again and promise myself that my behavior has everything to do with boredom and loneliness and _nothing_ to do with that kiss that happened that I have not stopped thinking about.

“No one in the kitchens will even _talk_ to me. I think I’m an Inquisition spy.  _That_ or the depths of Orlesian snobbishness is vastly underestimated. Anyway—I can't actually learn things from people who won't talk to me and-and- _and_  this entire trip is-is—ugh _, why am I here?_ ”

“So, you left?” He summarized placing a chessboard on a small carved table between us and began setting up the pieces.

“I wasn't going to, but I took a walk through the gardens and hiding in my room was a closer option than returning to the kitchen to be ostracized. What am I doing here? I have no purpose... And by the way, they're turning away refugees who are begging for food at the gates. Did you know? Is there no  _compassion_  in Orlais?” I ramble.

“Only our own.” He answered, flatly and I wondered what miseries he’s endured in the cultural hub of Thedas. Internally I chastise myself for my self-centered brain. “You won the last game, I believe?”

"How are you?" I mumbled, pushing my hair from my face, and sliding a pawn forward—eager for some semblance of affection and to be occupied with something normal.

He paused for a moment, watching me. "It's Orlais," he shrugged.

I waited a moment, hoping he would continue before realizing that was all the answer he was going to give. “Will you let me lose this time?” I sighed. 

“Since you asked so nicely,” he smirked.

Five minutes later, I'd been thoroughly trounced and he was resetting the board. “That was...brutal. How is this even enjoyable for you? Wouldn't you prefer to play against someone whose skill is  _vastly superior_ to my own and offer you a slight challenge? Dorian perhaps?”

“Dorian cheats.” He shrugged, again, and smiled. “Besides, it's your  _vastly superior_  company I prefer.”

“I don't even know what to say to that—”

“— _thank you,_  might be a good place to start?”

“Your standards are much too low,” I said, earning a chastising glare. I groaned. “I should probably get back—to the kitchens. See if I can't _glean_ anything from my keen skills of  _observation._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	15. Eggcept the Things I Cannot Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Violence ahead.

 “Kit!” I hear him yell, though the sound is thin and tinny through the ringing in my ears.

_Blood sprayed across the marble prep counter. A mix of screams and hollow laughter. The thick wet sound of a throat being cut. Blood as it spatters to the floor like water wrung from a dishcloth. The thick gurgle of air as it wheezes from a nearly headless neck._

“You can't go in there!” The guard yelled.

“I am _your Commander_. You do not tell me where I can and cannot go. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yessir—but she's a  _blood mage_.”

_The sharp, sweet, coppery scent of blood mixed with the acrid bitterness of bile and the stench of intestinal matter was still thick in the air from the sharp swords that had rendered through defenseless bellies. My stomach had revolted then, spewing its contents on the polished stone floor of the meticulously organized pantry. I'd drawn attention to myself, vomit dripping from my lips and tears scalding my eyes, blurring my view of the costumed assassins that swarmed throughout the kitchen._

“What do you mean she's a _blood_ mage?” Cullen demanded

_I froze. Shaking in my adrenalin surge. Unsure what to do. Unsure how to protect myself. My heart racing so fast it hurt to breathe. Choking on my fear. The pull of magic needled along my skin like a mass of stinging insects._

“She used magic without a staff, sir.”

“How are you—are you really  _that_ ignorant?” Cullen chastened. “What did this blood magic look like?”

“It looked like lightning, sir! She made lightning from the blood. There's blood everywhere.”

“Maker's breath. You're a fool.”

He pulls me into his arms and I shake and sob against his shoulder. “Kit! I'm here. You're safe. It's over now. Are you injured?” He asked, his hands raking over my body seeking and comforting at the same time.

I shake my head, no. My tears make dark splotches on the fabric of his formal attire. “I don't want to think of it. Go back.” I hiccuped. “I didn't mean to—it just happened!”

“It's fine. You're fine.” He soothed.

“It's not! They told me what I did. That I'm a—a—blood m-m-mage.” I wailed.

“Clearly, some additional training on the proper identification of mages is needed.” He snarled. “You  _are not_ a blood mage—just a mage.”

“A plain mage? A mage-mage?” I hiccup.

I felt the tremor of a smile against my hair. “A plain mage-mage.”

“But you hate mages..."

"Maker's bre—I most certainly _do not_!"

"Please don't smite me!” I wail.

“Smite you? Marker's breath! Wha—why would I— _Andraste’s Holy Knickers_! Are you _joking?_ ”

“Sort of?” I sniffled.

“You could have  _died_ and you're joking?” He made a choked sound.

“It was lightning.  _A lot_  of lightning.” I said. “But, fuck— _Cullen_! I killed people. I fucking  _killed_ —“

“Andraste preserve me. I don't know what I'd do if— _you'd_ —" His voice breaks as he pulls me tightly into his embrace, his nose buried deep in my hair, rocking me until his own breathing calms. I'm not sure how long we stayed entwined on the pantry floor but it seems much longer than he should be away from his duties as commander.

“—Go back. I'll be fine,” I said, but my tears wouldn't stop. “They need you at the ball.”

“No. Kit. The ball is over. The Assassin— _Florianne_  is defeated. Ellana was able to convince Gaspard, Celene and Briala to work together as you suggested.” He informed me while tucking my hair behind my ears, and futilely wiping tears from my cheeks only to have more tears cascade over his thumbs.

He looks at me as if he is trying to memorize my face or reassure himself that I am indeed still alive and unharmed. “I'm not letting you out of my sight. Not until I know you're okay. Can you walk?” He asks, interrupting his own reverie.

I nod and stand on my shaking legs with his help, but my knees knocking together like I have hypothermia.

He frowned. “This might be easier if I carried you.”

“Don't m-m-make a scene,” I warn, hiccupping again, voice shaking.

“You're making enough of a scene all on your own.” He scowled, lifting me in his arms like I weighed no more than a small child. “Maker you're heavy.”

“You're an _ass._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!
> 
> If you're enjoying reading this please leave some kudos, or a bookmark and/or a comment. It's the only way I have of knowing that you've enjoyed reading. You already have, you say? My ❤ melts.


	16. There's Dumpling You Should Know

He finds my rooms with minimal effort, while I’m disoriented after only two quick turns upon exiting the kitchens. It makes me wonder how many hours he's spent memorizing the palace layout. He sets me down in the purple chair by the fire where the chess board still sits, but my hands are shaking so badly I can't hold any of the pieces without knocking the others to the ground.

“Maker's breath,” he pours me a glass of wine and passes it to me, “ _drink_.”

I have to hold the goblet with both hands to keep from spilling the red wine all over myself and the royal Orlesian upholstery.

“All of it.” He ordered after I manage a sip and try to set it down, sloshing most of it onto the upholstery anyway. He mutters a curse and something about budgets and Josephine and helps me hold the goblet to my lips until it’s drained then leads me to the four-poster bed where he pulls back the varying shades of purple bedding from amethyst, lilac and violet, bedding and crawls in behind me, fully clothed.

“Commander, this is hardly appropriate,” I mumbled through the chatter of my teeth as he pulls a thick pile of blankets over us both. Even though I’m still fully dressed and under a mountain of covers and sharing a bed with a man who’s as warm as a five-hundred-degree oven—I still cannot stop shivering.

“I know.” He sighed, tucking me into the curve of his body until I can feel the press of his brass buttons dig into my ribs.

The wine blooms warm in my chest as he holds me snug against him. Between the warmth of his body and the tightness which he holds me, he somehow manages to soothe something of the terrified animal-brain-instinct that has taken over my body.

“ _ooll-av-oo-ain..._ ” He mumbled into my hair,

“I'll _what_?” I snorted and turned toward him so that he could talk  _to me_  instead of burying his words into my hair.

He sighs and rolls his eyes as if he’s somehow burdened with the need to repeat himself and readjusts the tangle of our legs. “You'll have to train.”

“I was worried you'd say that... just please don't make me fight.” I hiccupped.

“I've seen you wield a knife.” He teased, tucking more hair behind my ear. Honestly, I can’t believe that there’s any more hair to tuck behind there but each time he does, his fingers trail down the curve of my jaw and it’s all I can do not to sigh and rub against him like a cat. Right now, all I want to be is petted and held and cuddled.

“Against a _turnip._..” I grumble and then more seriously, “Cullen, I'm—I'm  _not_ good at it and I've killed people—enough for—for my life-t-t-time. I don't want to kill people. I _never_ wanted to hurt people… I know they were the _bad guys_ but— _Oh God_ —I don't want to kill anyone else.”

“ _Shh_.” He cooed, tucking my head under his chin and smoothing my hair. “You won't  _have_  to fight, you'd be surprised at the number of mages who don't know a thing about destruction magic. Although, as a former Templar I don't know much about the domestic side of things. You'll need to make sure you can control your ability enough so you don't accidentally hurt anyone. Or yourself.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead, smoothing my hair and cupping my face.

“Will I have to go through the Harrowing? Will you be there with me?”

“ _Maker's breath_ —I don't think you'll have to worry about  _a harrowing_  with the dissolution of the circles. But since you asked... I'm no longer a member of the order _—as such_ I wouldn't have been permitted to be there with you even if you _were_ to have one. Maker, Kit... I don't know what I'd do if _anything_ —you're the truest friend I've had in... in a _very_ long time.” He confessed, his warm lips lingering on the top of my head while brushing the wetness from my cheeks with the pads of his thumbs.

I nod turning toward the hands that cradle my face with such tenderness, like I am made of something precious to be cherished, seeking—wanting  _more_ , from someone I've not considered wanting more from. Kind of. Mostly. Unsure whether it’s the wine, or the receding adrenalin, or the still undiscussed kiss we'd shared in the tavern, or whether those feelings would remain the same tomorrow, I’m not sure?

Cullen has been there for me, in this place, when no one else has bothered to spare a second glance—even now he’s managing to calm my shaken nerves and shattered resolve. He’s much more than I’d ever expected him to be, and I can’t imagine how I can ever repay him and I definitely don’t want to give him the impression that I’m spreading my legs as a way to return that favor.

“ _Kit_ —" he whispered, somewhere between a plea and a warning—pupils blown wide.

My breath catches, because Cullen fucking Rutherford is looking at me like the last thing he’d do is question my motives for sleeping with him.

He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead against mine as he tries to catch his breath. I can feel the battle that rages in him, the hot throb of him against my thigh and I know it won't take much to push him over the edge. Although I know, ultimately, that that battle probably has more to do with a natural physical reaction rather than any actual sexual interest on his part.

Cullen is, for lack of better words,  _hot_. Those deep-set golden eyes that rest above his perfectly chiseled cheeks—in fact, _every square inch_ of the man looks _and feels_ like it’s been chiseled out of _fucking_ stone. And that damn scar that runs down his lip makes me want to run my tongue along that beautiful imperfection just before I bite it. Okay, yeah, definitely a lot of wine helping me to articulate my feelings at the moment, _and my actions_ , as my hands grip onto his collar.

“Cullen,” I whine tilting my hips forward. My impulse is returned with a muttered ‘ _fuck’_ and a long slow grind of his pelvis against mine that makes my nipples so hard I think they might actually poke through my shirt.

While Cullen is hot, I am cute _at best_ —on a good day with hair and fully applied make-up. I am certainly not some Mary Sue, as has been proven with my magical ineptitude, complete lack of verbal filter, multiple failed relationships, shit comedic timing, and well— _dreams and mirrors_.

Mostly, I rely on my personality, which isn't exactly shining. There is a reason why I blogged, for a living, hidden behind carefully crafted and edited words and distracting pictures of food. Last, I definitely can't categorize myself as having been a very _sexual_ being. My response to intimacy with former boyfriends has always been lackluster and boredom in the bedroom. I’m just _not that into it_ and have never understood what all the fuss is about? Still, something in the back of my little lizard brain wonders what Cullen would be like—if he would be languid and tender, or hurried with a perfunctory tear of clothes.

“We shouldn't...” He whispered, more loudly, his breathing still harsh and erratic. His entire body is rigid, the cords standing out in his neck as if he is forcing himself not to jump from the bed and run from the room. That, or he’s trying not to tear my clothes off.

“I understand.” _Really, I don’t understand—_ at all _. I almost died, please rip my clothes off and give me multiple orgasms to remind me why it’s great to be alive._

“You don't.” He shook his head, untangling our limbs, tucking my head under his chin again.

“Maker... I haven't spoken of this to  _anyone_. I'm—I'm  _broken_ , Kit. The things I've seen...  _and done_. When Ferelden's Circle was taken over by abominations the Templars,  _my_   _friends_ , were slaughtered. I was... tortured. They tried to break my mind and I—how can you be the same person after that?”

He takes a deep breath before continuing. The erection that _still throbbed_ against my thigh was ridiculously distracting and I find it hard not to reach down and—I really need to _focus._ Cullen is telling me about the most _traumatic_ incident of his life and all I can think about is fondling his raging hard-on—which is coincidentally the hardest hard-on I’ve ever had pressed against me, _ever_. He would _never_ forgive me. I took a deep breath and bit the inside of my cheek as I look up at him, forcing my body to match the same rigid posture as his.

“Even then, I wanted to serve the Order. They sent me to Kirkwall. I trusted my knight commander, but her fear of mages ended in madness. Kirkwall's Circle  _fell_. Innocent people died in the streets. You can see why I gave up that life? You should question me—what I've done. The memories...haunt me. Still.”

“And the lyr— _no_.” He shakes his head and his expression shutters. “Never mind. I—I'm sorry. I haven't been close to anyone since Ferelden. I haven't  _let_ myself. I don't want to risk that—to risk losing  _you_. We're better off— _you're_ better off, if we remain friends.”

I nod up at him, his face blurry from more unshed tears. There is nothing more that needs to be said. I’m surprised to discover that I’m _still_ crying at this point, as the haze of my arousal begins to recede. I wonder just how my being here changes things not only for Cullen but for everyone, and if it’s really not the best idea that we get involved. After all, this isn’t my game that’s playing out—these are lives that are being lived. I don’t want to be the catalyst that unintentionally makes things worse for these people, especially Cullen who’s done his utmost to protect me from the beginning. Instead, I let him hold me as I fall asleep needing to be held as much as he seemed to need to hold me.

He’s gone when I wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	17. Pie Like You Berry Much

It’s been _days_ since we returned to Skyhold and I haven't seen Cullen since his bedroom confession at the Winter Palace. The dynamic between us has obviously changed. I don't know who should take the first step toward making amends for the awkwardness that’s developed between us. I can only hope that this distance has more to do with embarrassment rather than the discovery that I am a mage. A procrastinating mage who wants nothing to do with learning how to... well,  _mage._

The former, I acknowledged is probably wishful thinking fueled by the sting of rejection. It’s happened enough during my lifetime for me to realize that he’s probably not that into me—not in  _that_ way, anyway. And, if I’m really honest with myself it’s probably for the best. Cullen has major issues which he readily admits to having and he’s probably destined to be with the Inquisitor anyway.

I had wanted to give him some space and time to think, but at the same time, I really missed my friend. I decided that enough time had passed and headed over to his tower for a _friendly_ visit. He didn't seem to notice me as I stepped into his office. He hadn't responded to my knock before entering. Instead, he stared down at a box on his desk. His brows locked together in a frown.

“Is  _that_ what I think it is?” I asked.

“Lyrium.” He whispered.

“I thought you'd stopped taking lyrium?”

“How did you—never mind. I  _had_  stopped...but the Inquisitor—" He said with a shake of his head and rubbed his neck.

“No.”

“— _ordered_ —"

“No.”

“—said we'd find another way.”

“No.”

“I cannot defy—"

“You can,” I grabbed the box and threw it on the ground, shattering its contents. “And _I_ will.”

“You realize I can easily get another?” He mused.

“Jesus flying fuckballs, Cullen! Then I'll destroy that one. And the next one. And the one after that!”

“I—" He looked stricken, his color high, his shoulders slumping in relief. “Thank you.”

We stood in silence for a moment, staring at each other, his expression unreadable while I hoped he wouldn't notice the splotches of red growing in my own cheeks.  _Don't think about Orlais... Don't think about that kiss before Orlais... Don't think about—_

He cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, you came in here for a reason—is there something you needed?”

“Right! Yes.” I begin, only too happy to have something to distract myself with from _him_ and the words—too many words—rush from my mouth in an unstoppable verbal flood, “I brought you a pie... _of sorts_. I found a collection of recipes while going through the cook's things—regional ones... hmm, this digression is probably not as interesting to you, at all?  _Anyway..._  It's a traditional Honnleath berry oat buckle. Although I have to say, it's not much of a buckle, but more like a reverse crumble with the oat mix on the bottom and fruit on top... Err... I thought you could try it before the kitchen staff replicates it for the meal tonight. Give me an official assessment being from Honnleath and all? I also made a few tweaks to the recipe, as I'm wont to do. I added some of the crumble mixture to the top which has actually turned it into a sort of  _re_ -imagined pie...and— _um_ —?”

He stares at me. Nervous? Horrified?  _Please don't let him be thinking about Orlais...Please don't be thinking about ANYTHING._

His expression softens as he looks down at the dessert in front of him. He clears his throat and begins, awkwardly, “I have to admit, this was  _not_ a favorite of mine growing up. My mother made it for us on  _special_  occasions. It was very— _chewy_. Had you mentioned it, I probably would have told you not to bother.” He paused, frowning at the fork that wavers between my fingers and amends as diplomatically as I've ever heard him try. “Although this does not look anything like the berry buckle that I had when I was a child.”

“Oh,” my face falls and I feel my stomach sink down to my knees. “Well, some of the recipes have been hit or miss. The Orlesian ones _especially_. We just don't have the same quality of ingredients here in Ferelden.” I ramble trying to shrug off how incredibly crestfallen I feel. I _had been very excited_ when I found a recipe from Honnleath and this distinct _lack_ of appreciation is as welcome as a gut-punch. He glares at me, then, as he does when it is implied or said that anything Ferelden is inferior to that of Orlais.

I shrug unapologetically and return us to our original topic. Chewy or rather the absence of chewy is the present definition of my crippling self-doubt. “They're more like a set of vague guidelines rather than instructions with no actual measurable amounts... So yeah.  _Shit._  It’s supposed to be  _chewy,_ huh? Like chewy _how_? Cookie chewy or bread chewy?”

He takes a bite and goes completely still.

“No—shit, don't! It's not—” I cry hands flailing, feet stumbling over the ground. I fail, utterly to intervene. "— _chewy_."

Panic. Guilt. And every neurotic emotion I couldn't identify must have flickered across my face, at least twice, while he closes his eyes and then sighs uttering an incomprehensible. “ _Maker._ ”

“I'm... _sorry._ I thought it was going to be good. I mean, I liked it—but then again, I like just about  _all_ foods.” I mumble, wincing.

“Is this what it's  _supposed_  to taste like?” He sighs again. I reach for the baking dish, to return it to the kitchen, only to have my hand swatted away, as he pulls the dish toward himself. “ _Maker_... it's still _warm_.”

Another bite. He talks and coos, with his mouth completely full, murmuring bits of praise while hugging the dish to himself like it's an infant. It is not the kind of behavior I have come to expect from the reserved and calculated Commander of the Inquisition. “...that's—most... _glorious_... thing—ever tasted.” He garbles, mouth full, with a bite so large that a blackberry tumbles down his chin.

“Oh hell. I guess this must mean it _is_  good.” I chastise. Tugging my apron from around my waist, I march over to his desk to wipe the trail of purple juice from his face. “Try to control yourself a little, will you  _Commander_?” He twists away from the cloth like a small child or wild animal, only to take another bite.

“Hold still. You've got it all over your face.” I grumble maternally as I wipe, to distract myself from the softness of his stubble and warmth of his skin and the look that says he finds me anything but maternal as he presses his cheek into my hand. “...should've brought you a napkin.”

“I was saving that for later.” He insisted smile crooked, shoving his full fork toward my mouth. “Have some.”

“No. I ate some before I got here. Besides I've gained _at least_  a full dress size since we've been at Skyhold.”

“I think you look beautiful.” He confesses, looking at me from beneath his lashes, his color high.

“ _What?_ ” The word comes out as an explosion of breath. I will not—cannot let myself go  _there_ with Cullen of all people. Not, _now_. Not after all that Winter Palace-talk of being friends and _nothing_ more. That would be a road paved in foolishness and littered with my own heartbreak.

I scowl and will myself not to blush. It’s important that Cullen think I’m not at all affected by his comment because he’s clearly incapable of sticking with his own decision and wonder what he’s playing at. I also wonder if we’d ever return to pre-Orlesian normalcy.

“I should get back to...  _stuff._ ”


	18. Butter Late than Never

Varric is in the midst of bouncing plot ideas, for his latest novel, off of me, when Cullen bereft of his usual armor stumbles through the kitchen doors looking almost as full of life as a shambling corpse.

“Shit Curly, you look terrible.”

“How are you?” I asked, taking note of the dark circles beneath the Commander's eyes. “Have you eaten? Have you _slept_?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and collapsed in a chair before Varric answered for him. “You know how things get when  _she's_  here...”

I know. Everyone runs ragged whenever the Inquisitor is in residence. There is always so much to do, and so little time for doing it, especially when our skittish leader splits her time between two nations and every spare demon-fighting mission in between.

 _She_  hates being here at Skyhold, being trapped indoors even with half the walls and roof in various states of disrepair or non-existence. In addition to being a political disaster and knowing it—she dreads and goes out of her way to avoid the necessary diplomatic interactions and judgments, much to Josephine’s chagrin. Really much to everyone’s chagrin. She is, after all, a political figurehead, at a minimum—which requires at the very  _least_ , her  _presence._ Ideally, she should be fulfilling her role as leader of the Inquisition. A position which she’s ill-equipped to handle.

There’s little doubt in my mind that she will disband the organization as soon as she is able. While she has fulfilled the saintly role of Herald with a disgusting amount of selfless altruism and aplomb, were it not for her council members the Inquisition likely would have imploded by now. As such, her time at Skyhold is condensed, to say the least, and those who remain here bend over backward to make sure as much is accomplished as possible before she leaves again for her humanitarian missions abroad, where her skills are best suited.

“Is she still here or did she ride out again?” I asked placing a mug of what has become the Commander's favorite tea in his hands. He wrinkles his nose at the smell. It’s bitter stuff but seems to be helping with the symptoms of his lyrium withdrawal. A blend of willow bark and elfroot for the aches and pains, and chamomile to soothe his restlessness, and last some honey to help with the taste. While he nurses the brew, I poured him a bowl of simple broth which is the base for tomorrow's soup. I take a seat, next to him, with some bread and cheese, which Varric declines to help us share.

“Not for a few more days.” He groaned, stretching—several things pop and crack before he sighs in relief. “I've been meaning to ask how your mage training is going?”

I wonder if this is the  _main_  reason for his visit. “Oh, it's pretty uneventful. Turns out not using magic is a lot less complicated than using it—so I've been focusing on that.”

“I see.” He scowled, some of the focus returns to his eyes which he narrows at me. “ _Have_  you been  _going_?”

“Not once,” I admitted, picking at the wood grain of the table.

“You realize you're dealing with the templariest Templar there is, right? That shit's not gonna fly, Snacks.” Varric informs me, leaning his chair away from the table.

“ _Former_ Templar...  _Former._ ” Cullen corrects, drawing out the syllables into what could have been two distinct words—FOR- _MER_ —before adding an ominous, _“_ We'll talk about this later.” Then he discontinues any additional effort to communicate. Not because he seems terribly angry but more that he seems too exhausted to lecture me any further, and for once Varric doesn't stir the pot. We eat in silence for a while, until Cullen’s eyelids grow heavy and eventually drift shut and don't reopen.

It becomes obvious at that point that our brainstorming session has concluded and Varric slips out, quiet as a ninja, erm— _rogue_.

I let Cullen sleep, ignoring the late hour and my own need for rest. I can’t recall ever meeting a person who drives themselves as hard as he does. A person that pushes their limits until they crashed and burned. So often it seems as if the only time he can relax or take a break from being the Commander is when he’s in the kitchens with me.

I enjoy the moments when it seems as if he’s too tired to acknowledge the dark cloud of distance that’s been hanging over us since Orlais. I don't bother to wake him, knowing he needs sleep more desperately than I do until it becomes obvious he is having a nightmare.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. You're dreaming.” I said, pressing my hand against his shoulder.

“ _Demon!_ ” He hissed. One moment I’m standing next to him and the next I’m launched across the room and pinned against a wall.

“Holy  _shit!_ ” I wheezed. I've overheard rumors about his nightmares, various loose-lipped castle staff or recruits who’d witnessed the broken furniture or torn sheets or heard the screams, but I hadn't thought—neither of the times we'd fallen asleep together had he ever had one. Next time I’d just poke him with a spoon and run, or maybe I'd throw things at his thick head from across the room.

His hand twists in my hair, tugging my head at an awkward angle and his forearm pressed into my throat choking off my small sound of alarm. All I can do is take little sips of air as I am forced further into the cold stone wall by a body that feels like it’s was made out of iron.

Until this moment, Cullen has been nothing but gentle with me. It’s obvious that I’ve been taking that gentleness for granted. Being on the receiving end of all of his unrestrained strength is terrifying— _and painful_. I watch him helplessly until the wildness begins to leave his eyes as they slowly widen into panic.

“Maker's breath!” He gasped, yanking his arm from my throat.

“ 's fine...” I sag forward, held upright only by his proximity.

“Forgive me! I didn't mean—I'm so sorry, Kit!” He pleaded, cupping my face in his warm trembling hands.

“You had a bad dream,” I explain, stupidly.

“Are you alright? Have I hurt you?  _Maker_...”

“I'm—I'm fine.” I can't tell him he'd that he’s scared the shit out of me, he'd be devastated, and really  _that_  much was obvious.

“You're shaking—are you sure?” He asked, trailing his hand from my neck to my shoulder and back up my jaw, fretfully seeking injuries and shaking just as bad as I am.

“Just— _startled_ ,” I whisper.

He tucks a stray curl behind my ear, the only real casualty of our encounter. My breath catches at his tenderness as he traced the shell of my ear. The small gesture forces us to acknowledge the lack of distance between us and the intimate press of his body against mine.

I feel the shift in him from battle-lust into something needier. His thumb brushes across the corner of my mouth. “I'm...” his eyes fix on the swell of my lower lip, “...so sorry.”

“I'm okay.” I insist as my heart thuds with renewed reason. I have tried very hard not to—and sometimes failed—to think of him in  _that_ way. Especially since Orlais. He wanted to remain, friends, to be  _only_  friends, he'd said as much. Therein lay my resistance as weak and pathetic as it is.

“Kit.” My name is a whispered caress across my cheek. His eyes are closed. His forehead pressed against mine, as he fights himself for composure, for control, for restraint—his body pressing closer, a question between us as if seeking my permission.

But it’s his own permission that he needs. I’m just a fool who doesn't know what the hell she wants. Neither of us pulls away. Neither of us moves closer. Despite the fact that I ache to lean into his inviting heat. Despite the thickness of him, that is pressing against my hip. Despite the sticky pool of desire that’s gathering between my legs and the harshness our breathing.

I want to reassure him again that he hasn't hurt me, but he speaks first. Apologizes again. So close that his mouth ghosts across mine. His fingers curl and uncurl in my hair like an oversized cat. The trembling hand in my hair hold us steady and apart.

“Cullen—” I shake my head and wet my lips, trying to regain my own focus before continuing. He makes a choked sound, his pupils wide.

“—void take me.” He growls, his teeth finding my lower lip. There is no preamble, just the hot swipe of his tongue against mine. He still tastes bitter and sweet from the tea. I arch into him and close the distance between us with a moan. His fingers tangle in my hair, tilting my head to deepen his kiss. Cullen doesn't just kiss me with his mouth, he kisses me with his whole body. My knees go weak and I wonder how anything could possibly feel so good and how we've made it this far without tearing each other’s clothes off.

Greedy hips grind into mine, trying to eliminate what little space between our clothes remains and I do my best to grab onto his belt and drag him even closer until he hits just the right spot that makes me moan and my head roll back. His teeth scrape along my jaw until his lips and teeth find the sensitive skin of my neck and he cups my breast.

I cry out. Startling us both. My physical response to him is like nothing I've ever experienced before, with  _anyone_. And I’ve certainly never been so... so  _noisy_! I am suddenly, indescribably glad that the room is lit only by the soft glow of the hearth and a few candles so that my shame and embarrassment can't be seen flaming across my cheeks.

“Maker.” He rasped, eyes nearly black with need. “I'm sorry.”

He’s gone, tearing away from me and walking out the door to the courtyard before I can say,  _‘wait!’_ Leaving me panting and bereft, and alone, against the cold stone wall. The interior door of the kitchens opens and my baker enters with the dough to be proved for tomorrow's bread.

“Fucking Templar senses...” I mumble, wondering if he left because he heard the kitchen staff or because of well,  _me_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	19. Thanks a Brunch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Angst

“Tea.” He groused and pushes past the door. We are between shifts in the kitchen, and the quiet privacy which that affords us is welcome. The kitchen staff seems to enjoy the more relaxed schedule our new efficiency provides, as well.

“Headache?” I ask. He responds with a single nod and pinches the bridge of his nose. I take a small satchel from a jar and drop it into a mug of steaming water. He snatches it from me greedily. “Sit down. Wait for it to brew.” I order, prodding him toward a seat at the table.

“I told Cassandra.” He said, fidgeting while he waits for the liquid to turn brown as if I can somehow use my latent magical ability to pull the missing parts of his conversation from the fade.

“Told Cassandra... _what_?” I asked.

“That I'm not fit for command.”

“You did  _what?!_  What could possibly make you think that?”

The door slams open and Cullen jumps from his chair, sword half drawn, prepared for battle. Cassandra looms larger than life, backlit by the bright sun of the courtyard, in the doorway.

“Good. He's here.” She barked.

“Yes, we're all here it seems.” I snarked, handing Cullen's mug to him.

“Maker! What is that? It smells awful.” Cassandra said, disgusted.

“It's for the headaches,” Cullen growled just before draining the contents like a shot of whiskey.

The Seeker nods her approval, “Talk some sense into him.” She ordered and without further explanation turns and leaves as abruptly as she'd entered.

“What is going on here?” I demanded.

“Maker, Kit! I  _attacked_  you!” He yelled.

“You were dreaming!”

“I could have....” he blanched, “I could have _killed_  you.”

“You didn't.”

“But I could have.”

“But you  _didn't_.” I insisted. “You didn’t even come close to hurting me. Look, at me Cullen—not even a scratch.”

“I thought this would be better. That I would regain some control over my life but these thoughts won't leave me. How many lives depend on our success? I swore myself to this cause. I will not give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry. I should be taking it!” He slammed his fist against the table, scattering plates and knives, his tea mug shatters on the floor. His color is high as he stares at me and shakes his head, dark shadows still lingering around his eyes. “I should be taking it. If the memories become worse if I—if I cannot endure this...”

I hug him. I don't know what else to do or say. What he’s going through is so far beyond anything I’ve had experience dealing with—he’s so vulnerable and, in his own words, 'broken' at that moment. He clings to me, fiercely and his grip is just shy of painful. One hand is buried in my hair, the other around my waist, his face presses tight against the spot between my neck and shoulder. As if, I am his only salvation.

“You'll get through this,” I promise, listening to his breathing until it calms and evens, and he doesn’t feel like he’s going to bolt.

We stay like that, in silence for a long while, wrapped in each other’s arms—me murmuring words of encouragement and him clinging to me as if I’m an eel who might somehow slip from his grasp—until the tightness of his hold eases and some of the tension leaves his body.

He doesn't pull away, as his hands slip low around my waist and he tugs my hips closer. His embrace transforming from comfort to affection.

“Andraste preserve me, Kit... why do you always smell so good?” He whispers, nuzzling my neck. His fingers slip under the hem of my shirt to tease my skin, sending shivers up my up my spine.

“Cullen—you can't keep treating me like this,” I say pushing him away. His inner turmoil is obvious. There are so many emotions fleeting across his face I can’t keep up with them. “I know you're going through some shit right now but I'm _not_ a game. We have a good thing— _as friends_. Don't ruin it.”

“I—I'm sorry if I've treated you unfairly.” He shakes his head, looking stricken, “I don't think I can be  _friends_. I'm sorry.”

“Cullen—" I start but am cut off by the soft click of the door as it closes behind him. I don’t know what I would have said differently had I known that my choices were not to be friends or  _whatever_ was left?

_Well, shit._

I grabbed an onion and a knife to hide my tears, and another. And another. I end up making a huge batch of Orlesian onion soup to explain the tears that won't stop falling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	20. You're Kiwing Me

The Seeker slammed open the door to the kitchens, as is her customary entrance.

“Good morning, Cassandra,” I said without looking up from the boar I was herb basting which the Inquisitor had brought in with a hunting party, at dawn. She may have been a diplomatic disaster, but it can't be said that she doesn't do her best to provide for  _her_ people. “Would you like some hot chocolate? There are blueberry tarts—"

“Come. With. Me.” She interrupted, which is not her customary greeting. I wonder what new level of meddling hell I am about to be dragged into.

“Can I have a rain check?” I wince. I am  _not_  ready to see Cullen. Not yet. And every time Cassandra’s involved, it means that Cullen is somehow involved. It’s been four days since he'd kissed me—okay, three and a half. Three days since he told me that he didn't want to be around me—sorry, didn’t want to be  _friends_. Not seeing much difference  _there_  and, not that I was counting or anything. But, I needed a lot more time to recover, and a whole lot more alcohol to build up my courage.

“You can _not_. You're needed in the War Room. Immediately.”

I mumble a litany of curses and dropped the greenery I’ve been using for basting into a bowl with a disgruntled splash, then wash my hands in a bucket of soapy water. I am beginning to feel like an uncredited council member between serving as sympathetic ear and confidant for the Inquisition's members and their makeshift meetings in the kitchen.

I know that there’s a problem the moment I walk into the room and all four sets of eyes turn to me in silence. I’m still raw from my fight, break-up? I’m not sure what to call it—from Cullen three days ago. Neither of us has tried to make amends. My eyes are still red and puffy. Then again, I've been crying myself to sleep every night since.

“The Orlesian Chantry has formed an official investigation against the Herald of Andraste to declare her a heretic and fraud.” Leliana began.

“That's...  _different,_ ” I said slowly, caught off-guard for the first time by the political intrigue of Thedas. Most of the time I can sound like I know what I’m talking about thanks to playing the game and being aware of each major event before it happens. That is not a luxury I’m granted, this time. “What do you need me for?”

“ _This_  arrived by raven this morning,” Leliana said, while Cassandra slams a piece of parchment onto the table in front of me.

“Oh. Holy. Shit.” I blanch looking from my likeness on a Wanted poster to Cullen, accidentally—out of habit really. He’s been my champion thus far and now, without him, I realize I really have no one in this place. He looks gaunt. Dark circles and tension ring his eyes, more pronounced than ever. “Treason? Espionage?” My voice cracks.

“The chantry has petitioned us for your extradition to Orlais,” Josephine informs solemnly.

“Can they  _do that_? I'm not even  _Orlesian,_ how can I commit treason against Orlais? I'm no treason... treas—treason _er._  And, and, and—I'm no spy!” I sputtered, indignantly.

“What kind of Spymaster do you think I would I be if I didn't already know these things?” Leliana raised an eyebrow.

“Good point.” I nodded, my raised hackles lowering— _slightly_.

“We are not accusing you, Kit,” Cullen says quietly, though his words hit me like a punch to the gut. It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice in three days and the sound of it makes my chest ache, and my throat closes up.

“Oh. Okay.” I nod, my lips and knees finally going numb and I sit on the floor before I can collapse.

“Maker's breath! Are you—” Cullen springs toward me, alarmed.

I waved him away and wiped at my too-frequent-since-being-in-Thedas tears. While I should be crying over this new  _life and death_  predicament which I now find myself—I’m mostly crying because of  _him_ , but they don’t know that and  _he_  doesn’t know that both of which make me indescribably thankful. “I'm fine. I'm just going to stay down here, where I can't actually  _fall_ down—okay?”

“Leave her. She's fine.” Leliana snaps unphased as if people collapse to the floor around her regularly. Then again, she tortures people, so they probably do... “Ultimately, they would like to have you to testify  _against_  the Herald.”

I was _really not_  prepared for any of this.  _Obviously_.

This is a direct result of my addition to this world, even as I try to maintain a low profile and not interfere with their lives or their futures—my periodic dalliances with the Commander aside. My being here now has direct consequences for  _everyone_  in this room. Everyone in the keep. And, beyond. I’ve never felt the need or want to leave this place and go home more strongly than ever—well, aside from those initial moments when I thought Cassandra was going to decapitate me. Only I was stuck here in this nightmare. And I was  _alone_  with no one to turn to.

“We cannot allow that to happen. Regardless of its outcome, a trial would bring validation to their cause and undermine every advancement the Inquisition has made thus far.” Josephine added. “And, we've grown attached to you... and your food.”

“Thanks?” I grimaced. “Are you going to deny that I'm here? What happens? Do I go into hiding in Denerim?”

“They know you're here, there's no use in denial,” Leliana explained. “The only way we can protect you from extradition is if you cannot testify against the Inquisition.”

“Am I not already a member? Isn't that conflict of interest, enough?”

“You are  _employed_  by the Inquisition,” Josephine clarified without actually making anything clearer.

“We have no real political standing to protect you,” Leliana explained.

“Just say it already, Leliana!” Cassandra shouted before turning toward me and slamming her palm on the table. “You will have to marry one of the members of the Inquisition. You cannot be forced testify against a spouse—rendering extradition pointless.”

“Oh. So, who do we say I'm married to? Anyone, right?”

“The marriage will have to be legally binding,” Josephine adds.

“Legally. Binding.” I paused while my brain digests this new information and fails to keep up. “Okay. Meaning we won't be able to annul the marriage after this blows over?”

“It must be  _consummated._ ” Cassandra snapped.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	21. Mint to Be

“Consummated.” I repeat, my brain refuses to comprehend, and I repeat again, “right.  _Consummated_.”

“With a witness.” Cassandra continues. At which point my brain shuts-off, completely. She continued, not realizing that she is only making things worse. “A witness that cannot be called into question by the Chantry.”

“Oh great! Maybe I can just fuck  _whomever_  in the courtyard to make sure everyone sees?”

“I'm so sorry I've put you in this situation.” The Inquisitor said softly.

“I think I’ve put myself in this situation,” I said, not wanting to add to her already heavy burden of being Inquisitor. She is so fragile and skittish.  _Still._ She is so unlike what I expected an Inquisitor to be. Derogatory ear jokes aside, she reminded me of a scared rabbit. More prey than predator, let alone a leader and savior. And she still needed so much guidance— _constant_ guidance.

Half the time I want to ask Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine, what the hell they’d been thinking—although they were probably asking themselves that very question. They’d become the de facto leaders of the Inquisition—but perhaps that’s what they’d wanted in the first place? All that was missing was a figurehead, a face for their movement: a puppet. That was… _horrifying_ the more I thought about it and I didn’t like thinking of them doing something so— _nefarious_.

“Do you have any preference on the matter?” Josephine asked.

At one point, three days ago, I may have had a preference. I look to Cullen or the watery visage of him through my tears. He shows no emotion and gives me no indication that he is remotely interested in participating in this farce. I hope, for my sake, that he hasn’t always been so cold and hasn’t always felt nothing when it comes to me or to us, but it hurts to see him so seemingly disinterested in this current predicament that I now find myself. We’ve come a long way since the _‘I don’t know what I’d do if anything were to happen to you,’_ days of Orlais. I shake my head, and issue a broken, “no. I suppose not.”

Permission granted the three female voices erupt around me tossing out the short list of names of suitable candidates. The Inquisitor stands by looking out of place and unsure what to do, her eyes darting amongst all the council members. 

Various Chargers are suggested and immediately dismissed—they are after all loyal to a Qunari spy.

 **Sera** —Too crazy and the Red Jennies were too questionably labeled as domestic terrorists by the nobility according to Josephine which would strain some diplomatic relationships.

 **Leliana** —Still with the Hero of Ferelden.

 **Cassandra** —Vetoed by Cassandra... Strongly.

 **Ellana** —Not interested in women, she clarified as she looks pointedly at Cullen, and to be honest I wasn't sure I was either or at least not enough to want to be married to one.

I sit, still on the floor, in stunned silence, feeling like I might actually pass-out, the room swimming dangerously with each individual mentioned and our lives flash before my eyes, while the council argued about my fate and my future sex life. I peek at Cullen from across the table. His posture is rigid. His complexion wan and he flinches as each name is mentioned.

 **Cole** —Too... _spirit._

 **The Iron Bull** — _The_ Qunari spy.

 **Dorian** —Too, well... _Tevinter._

 **Blackwall** —Hmmm... _Blackwall?_

Cullen snaps. Visibly.

“Maker's breath!  _I'll_  do it.” He thundered, his expression furious, finalizing the discussion.

“Cullen no!” The Inquisitor gasped. I know then that there must be something between them, or had been something, and wonder if he'd been completely honest with me about the nature of their relationship. Who was I kidding? I'd never thought to ask. The idea had seemed so preposterous that it had never even occurred to me,  _until now._ _Not that it_ _had_ _mattered, it’s not like he and I had been involved in_ _that_ _way… There’d been no reason to ask._

“If she'll have me, that is?” He amends, composing himself, clearing his throat, and rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. He flicks a dismissive glance at the young, waifish elf beside me. I watch him watching me, and the flush that creeps up his neck, and I wondered if he is remembering our kiss in the kitchens or if it’s chagrin at being outed for a  _thing_ with the Inquisitor?

I nod, stupidly. I’m dumbfounded. My brain is stuck on what is or is not between him and the elf beside me. Also, relief that I’m not going to be marrying Blackwall. Sort of? Cullen was without a doubt my best friend or had been until three days ago. I wasn't sure that I wanted to marry my best friend, or at least not  _this one_  in particular. I especially didn't want to marry my best friend knowing he was carrying on a relationship with someone else. A relationship he'd never bothered to mention before. That was not okay.

Is that jealousy or self-preservation?

Life is unpredictable—dangerously unpredictable in Thedas: darkspawn, broodmothers, archdemons, regular demons, fade rifts, bandits, blood mages, rogue Templars, Red Templars, dragons... did I really want to add more risk to mine?

Romancing Cullen within the in-game narrative safety-net was  _one thing_ , the reality was another. Which was the main reason why I'd been pretty careful—with a few _minor_ slips—to make sure we stayed in the relative safety of the friend-zone. Because, wow... Cullen had seen some shit that had really fucked him up. One of those important things being that he was a newly recovering drug addict. Not to mention his severe PTSD. So many and's, too many of them. My brain skipped around to all the ways this arrangement could potentially backfire, and those reasons are the same reasons he'd mentioned back in Orlais.

Being his friend has allowed to me to support him without becoming entangled into his PTSD and addiction, but married—I worry that if he stumbles, I'll fall with him and not know how to pick us back up.

Not to mention, he wants no part of my friendship anymore and has demonstrated that fact pretty clearly over the course of the past three days by avoiding me entirely. So, there is  _that._.. There are so many red flags—okay, maybe not  _so many_  but there are two, maybe three, red flags that are so big they may as well be minefields.

Of course, my next best 'sanctioned' option is Blackwall... an identity-thieving murderer who is currently posing as a Grey Warden and has strangely glossy lips.

So, I can: Marry a newly recovering drug addict with severe PTSD and may or may not have an Inquisitor side piece. I can marry a murderer. Or, I can go to Orlais and be tortured, rat out the Inquisition and then be hanged. Not a lot of great choices to be had there. I am so completely fucked that I am seriously tempted to accept the Orlesian offer.

“Then it is decided,” Leliana announced.

 _Witnesses._  I cringed.

“Really Commander, I must object—the political advantages— _oomph_ —Blackwall would be a— _oomph._  Stop hitting me, Seeker.” Josephine snipped when Cassandra's elbow met her ribs for the second time.

“Stop _talking_ , Ambassador,” Cassandra said through her ridiculously toothy grin. Positively beaming from ear to ear and sighed. “It's so romantic!'

_I'm glad one of us thought so._

“I'll go find Mother Giselle.” Leliana offered.

“Wait, what? _Now_? It's happening right _now_?” I cried.

“Perhaps you're right... A little more ceremony is in order? I'm sure Vivienne has a dress you can borrow.” Cassandra offered.

“I'll help you get ready.” Offered Lavellan.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	22. Lettuce Celebrate

Three and a half hours later with barely enough time to dry my eyes, I stand in the meager castle chantry with Mother Gisele, who I haven't seen since Haven—presumably because I avoid spending as much time in the Chantry as possible. And, the man who had become my best friend all of in Thedas and recently rescinded that friendship, the Commander of the Inquisition's Army.

It’s ironic, that we are being married in the Chantry considering that the Chantry is the source of this drastic last resort. We are surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers and on-lookers, and Inquisition soldiers, who are theoretically none the wiser and probably think I’m knocked up or something.

I have been scrubbed, buffed, shaved, coiffed and painted to Vivienne's exacting approval. She did not have a dress, but Josephine did. A flowing Antivan-lace gown that bordered on scandalous that had an open back and swaths of unlined sections which bared glimpses of skin.

My hair has been woven through with herbs from the garden that matched my bouquet—both of which are courtesy of Inquisitor Lavellan. Ellana Lavellan is helpful. Stupidly so. And selfless. Which is why she has woven herbs in my hair and helped me to get ready to marry the crush of her dreams while she fought back her own tears of disappointment and _legitimately_ tried to be happy _for me_. And, _that_ is why she is the fucking _Herald of Andraste_ and why I am the loser fucking patsy being set-up by the Orlesian Chantry. Whatever her initial objections and heartbreak she managed to put them aside—at least temporarily and helpfully informed me that there was _nothing_ going on between her and Cullen other than a big crush on her part. A crush which she was sad to realize was _not_ in any way reciprocated.

“Do you have rings?” Mother Gisele asked us.

“I hadn't thought—" Cullen looks at me guiltily and rubs his neck, then shakes his head.  _“—no.”_

“It's no matter,” the Mother assured us and proceeds to guide us through our vows, instructing us when and what to repeat after her. The ceremony concludes faster than I expect and before I realize I hear her instruct, “Cullen Stanton Rutherford... _kiss your wife._ ”

“ _Now_? In front of— _everyone_?” He gaped.

Instead, in the midst of his confusion, I kiss him. A perfunctory press of lips that is over almost as quickly as it begins. I count to three before he responds. At four, his fingers curl against my jaw and his lips moved against mine, and I feel it all the way to my toes. I pulled away quickly—confused. My breathing uneven. My heart pounds. The roar of the crowd aborts any attempt to pull me back into his arms and try again.

It has to be said that the members of the Inquisition love a wedding. All three levels of the Herald's rest are filled to capacity. Even the Inquisitor is there, although I feel like it must be some sick kind of torture for her to watch her crush and his new bride celebrate their nuptials. Even knowing that they aren't real. I know I couldn’t keep up the smiling and congratulatory act for long, then again, she is a much better person than I am.

The Bull's Chargers, with  _some_  help from Dorian, have filled the tavern with fresh cut herbs and little glittering poofs of light that float throughout the air like illuminated bubbles. My kitchen staff have outdone themselves in the short amount of time provided. The roast boar from the dining hall has been relocated to the courtyard. There are braised mushrooms in cream, mashed roasted parsnips, sauteed spindleweed with bacon and caramelized ramps, among a myriad of breads and cheeses and charcuterie, and—of course—Honnleath's famed blackberry buckle. Even my former boss, Cabot, has opened up his newly received shipments of apple and pear ciders to toast in celebration, not forgetting the Commander's favorite Ferelden Ale.

“Commander! You sly dog. I didn't even know you had a thing with everyone’s favorite cook. Quick wedding too...whadja do, knock her up?” The Iron Bull congratulated, sort of... and I blanched.

There it was, confirmation from the rumor mill. And the horrifying reality that was pregnancy and childbirth, suddenly a very real concern for me, in a world whose technology was as sophisticated as medieval Europe's. _Thanks, Bull!_

“I hardly think that's an appropriate topic,” the Inquisition’s Commander, my new husband, said blushing and glaring.

“Appropriate- _ashmopriate_.” Bull chided. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” The Qunari ordered, encouraging the crowd to chant with him, quickly garnering the support of the attending troops.

“I'm sorry for all of this.” I offered feebly, over the cacophony.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

“Don't. My motives for marrying you aren't entirely altruistic,” He confides, smiling his lopsided grin.

“ _Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!_ ”

His warm calloused fingers skim across my bare back, slipping just under the fabric, tingling and tightening things in my body that have no business tingling nor tightening from such minuscule contact, as he coaxes me toward him.

“What were your motives?” I whisper.

“ _Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!_ ”

“Is there nothing I can do to tempt you?” He answers, fingering a curl of my hair, echoing the words I'd said when we first became friends. His fingers slide into my hair and his lips are on mine, and the crowd is once again roaring their approval.

This kiss is nothing like the surprised, dry press of lips we'd shared after our vows in the Chantry. This kiss—I can tell—he's been thinking about for a while. This is a kiss that’s a promise for something _more_ despite its brevity. Dammit if my body doesn't betray me and arch forward, melting against him with a soft moan as his tongue strokes across my upper lip. I feel like I've been struck by lightning.

My pulse roars in my ears, drowning out the sound of the raucous cheers, and I became aware only of the feel of his lips and the slide of his tongue. The way his fingers jerk against my jaw, and how his other hand tightens low on my back, pulling me closer—I know he'd feels it too. It was a bold move for Cullen. One I hadn't expected. As he pulled away, he doesn’t look like he expected it either.

His eyes are as clouded and as dazed as I feel. As I looked around the room, I noticed one person was no longer celebrating with us. The Inquisitor had taken her leave for the night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	23. Will You Brie Mine?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The honeymoon begins. It should go without saying that it's NSFW, so don't read my smutty fanfiction while at you're at work. Employers tend to frown upon that stuff.

“I was supposed to carry you over the threshold, wasn't I?” Cullen observed as he opened the door for us. I freeze. Both Cassandra and Mother Giselle are already seated in his office, waiting for both of us.

“I'm glad you didn't,” I said, as Cassandra fails to suppress a disgusted noise. _So much for romantic._ “Right. Witnesses.” I sighed.

Whatever small amount of ardor that had been growing in me, throughout the night, immediately dissipates.

“I can carry you up the ladder?” He blushes as if his offer is more to trigger Cassandra's embarrassment than it is for my benefit. She falls for the bait beautifully sputtering indignantly before finally hiding her face in her hands and sobbing dramatically. When she recruited Cullen to lead the Inquisition’s armed forces I doubt she ever thought she’d get to serve as a witness for him consummating his marriage vows. They were friends, of a sort, but also work colleagues for lack of better terminology—this entire situation had to be awkward as ass for her. Probably more so for her than this was for me.

“That won't be necessary either,” I added. “So you two will be in the room when we—“

“—don't be ridiculous. I've no interest in such a vulgar display. We'll wait down here—I do not wish to expose Mother Gisele overlong to the cold night air.” Cassandra barked. I was beginning to wonder if she could say things in a normal speaking voice—like the rest of us. Or, if this was her  _normal_.

“Small-ish mercies.” I sighed.

“By the way, you will want to thank Scout Harding for the accommodations upstairs. And Commander, please try to be— _expedient_.” The Seeker continued interrupted only by Cullen’s choked laugh before he slapped his hand over his mouth and turned bright red, “I'd like to get some sleep before I ride out with the Inquisitor in the morning.”

“May the Maker smile on both of you.” Mother Gisele offered softly.

“And you, Mother,” Cullen squeaked, as the two women encouraged us to get moving up the ladder.

“I'll need some help unfastening my dress,” I said once we were in his loft, surrounded by fragrant dawn and black lotus blossoms and soft candlelight. It was beautiful and I regretted that so much effort had been devoted to this charade.

“I can call Cassandra?” He offered.

“What? _No!_ ” I turned my back to him. “Look, I'm sorry that this is so... _weird,_ but once is enough to make it legal.”

“Just the  _one_ —” He coughed and I could _hear_ him scrubbing the back of his neck.

“—Cullen, you command _thousands_ of soldiers, I think you have the advantage over a button.”

“It's not that...” His said, and I felt his fingers tremble against my skin.

“You're shaking. Is it the lyrium? Do you need to rest?”

“Maker's breath... _No.”_ _He said stepping closer until I could feel the heat radiating from him and his breath was a warm purr across my ear._  “Hold still.” He growled against my neck.

“I can get the others,” I offered, fingering the first button in a line of buttons along my backside, coming into contact with the royale sea silk of his dress shirt. “I just needed help with the one that was of reach.”

“Let me.” He said, swatting my fingers away.

“No, it's fine. I can—"

“—Kit. If you don't stop talking—”

“—sorry, right. You probably need to concentrate.”

“Maker's breath—" He snorted, trying to stifle his laugh. He nips at the shell of my ear and whispers another command to stop talking while he pushes the lace gown over my hips until it puddles on the floor. I hadn't even felt him fuss with the buttons we'd been bickering over.

He goes silent, save for his sharp intake of breath.

"Cullen?" I ask, turning my head. I try to cover my nakedness with my hands.

“You're not wearing any smalls.” He croaked, as I stand wearing nothing but moonlight and candle glow.

“They made the dress lumpy,” I grumble. A hot flush of embarrassment spreads across my chest and I’m so nervous I’m trembling.

 _What was wrong with me?_  It wasn't as if I hadn't had sex before. Granted, I'd never been with anyone nearly as good looking as Cullen, or one that made me moan just from kissing, but those things should really have been  _helping_  not hindering the situation.

“Get on the bed.” He growled.

I nod and pick my way to the edge of the mattress on shaking legs. I cross my arms over my breasts and sit on the edge of the mattress. When I look up he was striding toward me, naked and magnificent, and at least one part of him was  _very happy_  to be there. He is for lack of better words breathtaking and I lament that this moment can't be more enjoyable for us both. Because he is beautiful—all chiseled planes, slabs of long muscle, and that scarred lip which I wanted to—

“Put your arms down,” He orders, ruining the amorous direction of my thoughts. I hesitate, mortified. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace my hands on the mattress, gripping the sheets tightly in my fists.

I wish I could say that I am one of those people who thinks all naked bodies are beautiful. I’m not. Especially, _my own_. Even the one as perfectly formed as that which was standing in front of me still looks a little... _silly._ I find that being naked with someone is usually embarrassing enough when you were both emotionally vested. Being naked in front of someone who three days ago admitted they wanted nothing to do with you was more than awkward. Being naked and expected to have sex with a person who admitted that they want nothing to do with you is downright painful. Add on some legal witnesses to listen to the consummation of a sham marriage—nightmares on top of nightmares. 

“Spread your legs.”

 _Oh. My. God._  I didn't know it was possible to turn the shade of red my body was turning. I could even feel my feet blush.

My brain makes a little humming noise before it short circuits and I do as he asks, without opening my eyes, and I feel his warmth settle between them. “Maker, _Kit_ —" He whispers against the inside of my thigh.

I nearly jump out of my skin. “Holy shit!” I yelp. My eyes snapping open to reveal him kneeling between my thighs. Staring. “That isn't necessar— _oomph_.”

“— _stop_ talking,” he grumbled, anchoring his hand over my mouth and leaving it there, all the while tracing a slow path between my legs with the other. When his lips and tongue follow, it’s as if he has a direct connection between my legs. My back bows. I grabbed fistfuls of his hair and moan loud enough that I know I will never be able to look Cassandra or Cullen or Mother Gisele in the eyes again.

Absently, _mercifully,_ I hear the door below slam shut—thank you, Cassandra—before my sanity abandons me completely, sucking on the fingers that have dipped between my lips, writhing and arching my hips toward the mouth that demands everything from me.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	24. Lime Yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More wedding night/morning honeymooning (AKA, it's NSFW kids!)

“Maker...” He swore against my neck, cocooning me into the curve of his body as the first golden rays of sun peek through the missing half of his roof.

“So... I guess we're legal now,” I announce, struggling to get up.

“Stay,” he purred, holding tighter. His fingers skim over my hip, drifting lower. “You need the rest as much as I do.”

“Rest?” I scoffed. From the direction that his hand is traveling and the solid press of him against my backside,  _rest_ is the complete opposite of what he has in mind.

He mumbles something appreciative and inarticulate against my neck before his lips and teeth and tongue find my skin in a way that sends shivers down my spine and makes my toes curl.

“Cullen, you don't have to do this—” I said, trying to catch my breath and sound totally unconvincing.

“—I think I do.” He growls, working his way down the length of my body, finding my breast with his mouth.

“Cassandra and Mother Gisele left last night.” I gasped, writhing beneath him. “You don't have to keep doing this—to pretend for my benefit.”

“I'm not  _pretending_ , Kit. I've wanted you since— _Maker_ , I've wanted you since Haven.” He frowns above the shiny pinkened tip of my breast.

“I crave you in a way I didn't think was possible. Your laugh. Your smile. The way you feel. The way you smell. The way you taste— _Maker_ —the way you respond to me.” he confesses, gliding his fingers across my most intimate parts to prove exactly what he means.

_Shameful. Embarrassing. Mortifying.... Please don't stop._

“...Makes me want you all the more.” He continued to expertly demonstrate what we both wanted, pressing into me inch by delicious inch.

I whimper, hips tilting, seeking more.

“ _Maker's breath_.” He gasps, his body rigid with restraint. “...if you don't want me—if you want me to stop, I will.”

“Mmm, yes.” I groan, and he blanches. “I mean, no. _I mean—fuck!_  Oh. My. God. I mean don't stop. Please, _don't_ stop.”

Cullen Stanton Rutherford obeys and shatters me into a thousand little pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More chapters and a return to some semblance of a plot, coming soon. ❤
> 
> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	25. We Make a Great Pear

“I have some business in Ferelden and was wondering if you might accompany me?” Cullen asks from the doorway of the kitchens. I hand him a cup of tea which he promptly passes back to me, “I don't think I need that today.” He smiles.

“Very well...” I turn and set the cup on the table. “How long will we be gone?” I ask.

“Four, maybe five days.” He murmurs against my ear, tugging my bottom into the cradle of his hips. He nips at the shell of my ear while slipping his hand beneath the waistband of my breeches. “Do you have some time?”

“Should I meet you on the battlements?” I tease, reveling in the hunger he arouses in me so easily, reaching back to palm him through his breeches.

“Maker's breath— _no_! Not for what I have in mind.”

Instead, we end up in the wine cellar. Pressed desperately up against the stone wall behind a cask of Orlesian red and a keg of Ferelden ale. Need and urgency override our caution, with rough hands and mouths that will darken our skin and betray our stolen moment of passion for days to come. Both of us try to remain quiet while we coerce the other into crying out—discretion failing us utterly.

When we finish, he struggles to put himself to rights. Blonde curls stuck out this way and that. His bottom lip is pink and swollen from where I've worried it between my teeth and his amber eyes are glassy. The Commander of the Inquisition walked away unsteadily, grinning stupidly, looking well and thoroughly fucked.

Three days later and after an hour-long hike through the bucolic countryside beyond the outskirts of where the village of Honnleath is being rebuilt, Cullen leads me onto a dock that’s situated on the banks of the most pristine, erm—big pond? small lake?— _inland body of water_  I've ever seen.

“In the Inquisition, we wake to danger every day. I wanted to take you away from that—if only for a moment....”

“You're going to Adamant," I said, my voice flat. And I can’t help but remember the fortress that’s completely overrun with demons, the binding rituals, the dragon, the nightmare…

He rubs the back of his neck, as he always does when he’s uncomfortable. “Yes.”

I nod, working my shoes off my feet and sit where I can dangle my feet in the cool water. “When?”

“The day we get back.”

I suck in a breath and am glad that I’m already sitting. “Jesus, Cullen. How long have you known?”

“A few days before our wedding.” He grunts as he sits down next to me, boots off, breeches rolled up to the knees. Armor, fur, and sword in a tidy pile behind us.

I groaned and could have slapped my forehead. “That means— _ugh_. So that's why you disappeared on me for days after we—”

“— _Maker's breath!_  Kit I'm sorry.” He swore, obviously coming to the same realization. “What you must have thought of my behavior—”

“I thought you were mad at me. That you wanted nothing to do with me.”

“ _Never_.” He promised, pulling me tight against his chest. “I meant to explain things to you but there was no time. Preparations had to be made. Forgive me?”

“No.” I sigh and shake my head, only then do I note his frown, “Cullen—there's _nothing_ to forgive. It was a misunderstanding. And _really shitty_ timing.”

“I don't deserve you.” He whispered into my hair, squeezing me tighter.

 “Actually, you deserve much better,” I snorted and turn to place a kiss on his jaw.

“You knew—what would happen at Haven. Can you tell me...?”

I think of Erimond and Clarel and the Wardens. “It's going to be a cluster fuck.”

“I was afraid you'd say that.”

“It’s nothing she,  _you_  haven't really faced already—just...  _more_ ,” I added. “I should stay—at Skyhold—for the battle, I mean. I don't want to change the course of events more than I already have or have a repeat of what happened in Orlais. And I don't want you  _worrying about me_  when you should be... _Commanding_.”

“The Wardens?” He asked.

I shake my head. “Some... _survive_.”

His hand finds mine and we stare across the water for a time, lost in our own thoughts. “I grew up not far from here. This place was always quiet.”

There is nothing but the soft sounds of water lapping against the dock and the various songs and sounds of mother nature to be heard. Not that I expect that the area had been a bustling noise-filled metropolis prior to the Blight. We'd wandered the ruins of the village on our way to this lake-pond- _whatever_ , and 'quaint' seemed far too generous a term.

“Did you come here often?” I ask.

“I loved my siblings, but they were very _loud_. I would come here to clear my head. Of course, they would always find me eventually.”

“Was I your  _lake_ —in Skyhold I mean? All those times you were hiding from the Inquisitor in the kitchens, was that your version of escaping to the lake?”

“I wasn't  _hiding_...” He grumbled and adds quietly. “You've always been my salvation.”

“You were happy here?” I asked, changing the subject, uncomfortable with his praise.

“I was. I still am.”

“It's beautiful.”

“It's beautiful wherever you are.” His cheeks turn pink, and he clears his throat. “The last day I was here was the day I left for Templar training. My brother gave me a coin. It just happened to be in his pocket, but he said it was for luck. Templars are not supposed to carry such things. Our faith should see us through...”

“You broke the Order's rules? Cullen, I'm  _shocked!”_

“Until I a year ago, I was very good at following them.  _Most_  of the time. This was the only thing I took from Ferelden that the Templars didn't give me.” He said, holding out a silver ring that seems to match the one he’s wearing. How had I not noticed him wearing that earlier? “I had Harritt forge it into a pair of rings, as a reminder of how lucky I am to have you.”

He slips the ring onto my finger.

“Would you—would you marry me?” He asked, his voice thick and rough, barely above a whisper.

“We're already married,” I said, confused.

“I meant—" he rubs the back of his neck, “ _Maker_ —if you had a choice in the matter, would you do it again?”

“I always had a choice.”

“No, you—"

“—I could've said  _no_... gone to Orlais.”

“That's not—"

“—I didn't say  _no_ , Cullen.”

“Maker's breath. I hadn't—thought... I— _Kit_.“ His voice breaks on my name as his lips bruise mine with things left unsaid.

Eventually, his seriousness lessens and his lips curve into a mischievous grin against mine and his fingers find the buttons of my shirt. “Can you swim?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	26. In a Pickle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Violence(ish), kidnapping, misery, smiting, and various other ouchies ahead.

For the first time since arriving at Skyhold the courtyard is filled with the soft sigh of the mountain wind and the deep knock and groan of trees, only disrupted by the occasional bark of a Ferelden hound. A small contingent of soldiers has been left behind to keep the fortress secure. The grounds are eerily quiet. From what I can tell, those who remain are mostly provisioners and other various non-lethal nobodies, like myself. Most of whom seem to still in bed at this hour—enjoying their temporary reprieve of duty. I yawn and stretch as I enter the gloom of the kitchen, still in my night-rail, wincing at the twinges of soreness that linger from the last night I spent with Cullen—two days prior.

We hadn't slept.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow.” I sigh, smiling at the bittersweet memory. My lips still tingle. In another five days, they'll reach Adamant Fortress. It will be, perhaps a month, before Cullen returns. I light a piece of kindling on the embers of the cooking fire for a candle, holding it against the charred wick until it flares to life and gasp as my world suddenly goes dark.

The first thing I notice as my consciousness flickers back to life, aside from a searing headache, is the mildewy tang of an unwashed cloth that has been stuffed into my mouth as a gag. The second is that I've been trussed like a chicken and roll around in the back of a wagon which must have square wheels as each and every bump on the road paved entirely of bumps and potholes grinds my hip and shoulder deeper into the splintered wood of the wagon bed. Pain ricochets up my neck as my bones grate together and radiate into my already aching head. The third thing is that I can't see anything more than shadows through the dusty sack that has been placed over my head—that is between the bits of grit and fibers that rained into my eyes when they’re actually open. And last, before I succumb to unconsciousness again, I was wet and freezing. My bare legs are exposed to the elements and the thin cotton of my nightgown absorbed the sheets of rain-snow mix that fall from the sky. As the cart lurches onward, my stomach roils and my head swims before I find myself descending back into the dark abyss of oblivion.

When I next wake it’s dark and I’m inside,  _somewhere,_ _warming by the light of a fire on the opposite end of a small one-room cabin_ _._ I’m not sure how much time has passed—whether it had been hours or days—since I was last awake, or since being abducted. My hood is gone. My sensory deprived eyes water in protest and a renewed wave of pain sear through my skull again at the brightness of the fire in the fireplace. My stomach rebels and I promptly vomit all over the meager yet-to-be-eaten dinner that has been provided for me. My captors swear, in Orlesian, or I assume they are swearing based on their tone before they dose me with the entire vial of an elfroot potion. 

Slowly, the world begins to right itself, and I start to take in my surroundings. A simple and sparse cabin with a fireplace for heat and cooking, two chairs and two beds. As well as a bearded man who restrained in the rear of the cabin with me.

“Blackwall?” I choke as his features swim into focus. Firelight glints off his bottom lip through his overgrown thicket of facial hair. His eye was bruised and swollen shut. “I thought you were fighting at Adamant?”

“I'm supposed to be— _yes_.”

“But Cullen—I mean,  _the Commander_ —left... has it been days ago? I didn't think anyone was still at Skyhold?”

“The Commander and his forces were to siege the fortress. I was to accompany the Chargers and rendezvous with the Inquisitor in the Western Approach.”

I take a moment to comprehend how insular my little world in Skyhold had become. My two primary concerns were cooking and Cullen—not Commander Cullen, but Cullen the man. It meant we didn't discuss the minutia of being Commander or the Inquisition if it could be avoided. After dealing with Inquisition matters all day the last thing he wanted to do was discuss them all over again with his wife. Lately, we hadn't been doing much  _talking_  at all... That also meant I was probably the least informed person in Skyhold when it came to what was actually going on around me. “They won't realize we're gone, will they? The Chargers will assume you went with the infantry, and no one will realize we're missing until—"

“—Adamant.” He finished. As much as I want to be rescued, I pray that Cullen won't learn of my disappearance until after the battle. He needs to survive. I need him to survive.

 _A week._  I think to myself.  _They won't know we've been gone for at least a week._

“I should be with them—for the Wardens.” Blackwall continues on his own trajectory.

“Why? You're not a Warden. You're not even Blackwall.” I blurted.

“How did you— _you know_? I've heard the rumors about you... but I didn't think they were true.”

“What  _rumors_?”

“That you're a witch. That you can see the future. That you foresaw Haven. What you did in Orlais.”

I make a disgusted noise that sounds disgusted enough to even make Cassandra proud and roll my eyes. “It was  _one_  time... You'd think that in a world where you have actual _colleges of magic_ and _mage circles_ and whatnot, the stigma of being a witch wouldn't be so— _stigmatic_.”

“So, it's true?”

“What? No!  _Gah—no_! I'm not a witch.”

“But you're a mage.”

“Yes. No. Not _really?_ I don't really know how to uh—do  _mage things, erm, magic._ ” I rub my head unsure if my head wound or if Blackwall, Thom Rainier, or whatever his name is, is giving me a new headache. I change the subject. “Do you know who these people are?”

“Orlesian bounty hunters.” He snarled. “I know why I'm here, _my lady_ , but why are you here?”

“Oh...” I sigh and roll my eyes. “Treason, espionage...”

His shiny bottom lip droops under his thick beard.

“They're— _the charges_ —they're made up.  _Obviously_.” Realizing that  _that_  in itself is not a compelling argument, I continue. “The Chantry wants me to testify against the Inquisitor, rather the _Herald_. They want to denounce her as a heretic or some nonsense. But I'm married now... to the Inquisition, or one of its leading officials, rather. They  _know_ I can't be compelled to testify. I don't understand why I'm here?”

“Perhaps they don't want to compel you.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Perhaps they mean to convince you?”

As if on cue, one our captors-cum-bounty hunters has had enough of our chit-chat and spews a litany of Orlesian at us which Gordon-Thom-Blackwall-Rainier- _whatever_ understands. My big takeaway, which I gather from the tone was to  _shut-up_. Then the man smites me.

I want to die.

My body feels like it’s imploded from within.

I see Blackwall’s silent rage behind the roar in my ears, face red, straining against his bonds. It’s as if the wind has been knocked out of me only  _more._ The nullification of mana knocks me flat on the floor and leaves me writhing and gasping for breath. I feel as if my every part of my body has lost its will to function—to survive as time suspends, leaving me in a state of agony until life slowly trickles back.

After, the pain lingers, resonating in my bones, joints, and muscles for hours. My veins throb as if the simple ability to carry blood has become a bruising struggle.

The action is repeated every few hours, the moment I began to recover another templar would smite me again and again and again. I lose time and awareness.

We are delivered to the courtyard of a dilapidated chantry. An ultra-conservative sect, it seems, if their austere version of Chantry garb is of any indication. There is some question as to whether they know of my marriage to the Commander of the Inquisition, or if they just don't care. Chantry Law—the Maker's Law—doesn't quite work in the same way as that which governs Thedas. The fanatics who hold us captive obviously refuse to recognize any authority beyond that of Andraste or the Maker.

Our hands are bound together with rough hemp rope and the Templar forces us to kneel in the crumbling courtyard.  The Sisters emerge one by one, their faces blank, reciting from the Chant of Light.

_And so is the Golden City blackened…_

The Revered Mother is last to enter, a pair of scissors in her hand. Our heads are shaved, including the wild scrub of facial hair Blackwall calls a beard, to prevent lice and presumably to dehumanize us as much as possible. The smell alone is enough to make me retch as we descend the stone steps into a dungeon.

_With each step you take in my Hall._

We are not the only ones being held. Soft whimpers and moans echo in the dark, as we enter the caverns that once served as a crypt. Rats scurry and chitter with the unfamiliar introduction of torchlight among the smattering of partial skeletons that remained.

_Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting._

Every few hours, around the time that my legs recover enough for me to try to stand, a templar descends into the darkness to cleanse me of the mana I've never learned to use.

_You have brought Sin to Heaven…_

I realize along with Blackwall's renewed shouts of outrage, that this is how they will break me. This is how they will get me to testify against the Inquisition—against the Herald. With abatement of mana, I am ready to agree to anything they want—if only they would stop. If only they would make the pain stop. If only I could understand them.

_And doom upon all the world._

We know that it will take a month or more before I have any hope of being rescued— _if_  the Inquisition knows where to find us or to even start looking. I wonder how much of myself will remain if they find us in time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS - Constructive feedback for the betterment of this chapter is entirely too welcome and much appreciated in advance. I feel like SOMETHING (more visceral misery, pining Cullen feels/memories, comma splices, something else? etc.) is missing but can't quite determine what that something is? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
>  
> 
> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	27. Romain Calm

I've never heard him so angry. Although, at first, I think that I must be hallucinating from the fever between gaps in my consciousness. Perhaps I am? The sharpness of his tone cuts through the stone walls makes my eyes water, hints at the violence that threatens just below the surface.

Has it been a month, already? Has it been longer than a month? I catch words like Empress, General Chalons, Inquisition, and immediate release. The persuasive ring of a sword as it’s pulled from its scabbard. An order to search every cell.

Blackwall had disappeared in a matter of days after our arrival. He had been not only my champion but my calendar, keeping track of how much time had passed, reminding me to stay strong as my captors did their best to break me. After he was gone, the days and nights—not that I could tell the difference between the two in the constant dark of captivity—and smites all blurred together into one never-ending stretch of time. Each visit from a Templar had included a cleric spewing Orlesian vitriol. Without Blackwall to translate, there was no hope of my understanding their demands.

Had I lost so much time already?

“Kit?” Scout Harding asked, waking me.

My throat tightened and my voice reduced to a squeak. It’s all I can do to nod in relief while I dry tearless sobs escaped my fever cracked lips.

“Okay. Just—hang on...” She promised before yelling, “ _Sister Nightingale_!”

I wake in a tangle of lustrous cotton sheets under a silk brocade canopy in an ornate Orlesian bed in a very gilded Orlesian room of soft blue and gold  _everything,_  only to be emphasized by the soft golden glow of candlelight.

“How do you feel?” Leliana asked seated bedside in a golden chair.

“Cullen?” I rasped instinctively.

“I—” She shakes her head and hands me a glass of water. “He's still at Adamant—we  _did not_  tell him. He would have—“

“—left the battle.” I finished for her. My eyes water, whether from emotion or the brightness of the candlelight after being deprived for so long, or both, I’m not sure. I nod and brush the wetness from my face. “I understand.”

“Good. It is likely he won't.” She sighs a brief moment of self-doubt flickering across her face.

“You don't think you made the right decision—in not telling him, I mean?” I asked.

She is slow to answer. “The Commander's priorities have changed, more than we anticipated when you married. His allegiance is no longer to the Inquisition... not that we resent him for finding love—but should he have to choose between you and the Inquisition… his choice is obvious.”

“You're saying I'm a liability,” I deduce.

She doesn't answer, but her silence is enough confirmation.

“They have Blackwall,” I say, announcing my second most pressing thought.

“ _Merde._  I suspected as much.” She stands. “Josie will be here in a few days—I'm glad you're safe, Kit.”

“Where are we?”

“An estate of Duke Bastien de Ghislain— _the summer one_.” She said with a hint of disdain. “You're free to wander, of course, when you feel well enough to do so.” She murmured, shutting the door softly behind her.

 

* * *

 

 

“A fundamentalist sect of Chantry.” Announced Josephine midway through our pain au chocolat and cafe au lait. We sit on the terrace. The morning sun is warm on my face and the air is sweet and heavy with dew and honeysuckle. I watch as insects flit from flower to flower and rub my toes along the seam of the cobblestone patio, reveling in the serenity and simple pleasures—taste, touch, sounds—that I’ve been denied during my incarceration.

This is the second time I've had the opportunity to have coffee since arriving in Thedas—the last time being at Halamshiral, and Josephine has allowed me a generous amount of time to savor the moment. Now, I try not to dilute it with my tears.

“You were not the only one—the catacombs were quite extensive and nearly full. Everyone— _tortured_.” She presses my sweating palm against the cool softness of her own. “Kit, I'm so sorry. You have questions, no doubt?”

“How long have I been gone?”

“Almost three weeks.”

The wispy ends of my hair brush the tips of my fingers like down feathers, reminding me that it was cut too short to tuck behind my ears. “Not so long then, right? People go through much worse. Don't they?”

Josephine looks startled. “I do not envy the world you must have come from.”

“No—I mean...  _never mind_.”

Two weeks in captivity and one week of travel to get there, that wasn't so bad right? I mean, as far as being held captive goes? People have often been through worse and survived. I had survived, _so far_.

“Adamant?” I asked, changing the subject.

“We won...  _technically_.” She nodded.

“What will happen to them?”

“What will happen to who?”

“The chantry sect. What will happen to them?”

“Not many survived Leliana's raid and the chantry has denounced the survivors. They will face judgment in Orlais or by the Inquisition.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	28. Don't Go Bacon My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, when it comes to this piece, I have no idea what the dividing line is between M and E so there's been some debate about a rating change due to the sheer quantity of marital bliss vs the lack of explicitness in the "scenes" of marital bliss--if you will? The smut MUST flow. Feel free to add your opinion below to add to the discussion, particularly if you feel the current rating is inaccurate--and do provide some solid non-troll-like logic to support your reasoning. Rudeness will be ignored (by me, that is, I cannot promise that other readers/commenters will tolerate that nonsense).

I lay boneless, in a cocoon of warm bathwater, shrouded in the opaque bath oil. Fat droplets of jasmine and rose cling to my skin like perfumed dew on a blade of grass. Soon, Lisette would return with a pile of warmed towels. I grumbled when I hear the door open and close but don't bother to open my eyes. This is my favorite part of Orlais—Skyhold has public baths and finding myself alone in them was a rarity that had yet to happen. I wanted to savor every moment of this while it lasted. Unlike most of the guests in this house, I could dry off with a room temperature towel and survive.

“ _Maker's breath_ —you're a sight for sore eyes.” A familiar voice purrs next to the tub.

“Cullen! Don't look at my hair!” I cried, flinging my arms around his neck.

His curls are still damp and unkempt, as if he’d become too impatient with hygiene and gave up before he could comb them, and he smells of bay and lemon verbena. When his lips find mine, the world and Orlais disappears. I half scramble and am half dragged from the tub, my shins banging on the rim, as we tumble to the floor a mess of lips and limbs. I'll have bruises later. It’s worth it.

“I should have been there.” He frowns, fingering the short remainder of my hair. The only remaining physical example of what I've been through.

“You couldn't have known.” The smooth skin of his neck was pressed against my lips. He shaved.

“Maker, Kit—I don't know what I'd do if... _if_...”

“None of this is your fault.”

“I'm sorry—I should have—” His voice broke. One hand presses tight against my scalp, the other bands around my middle crushing me to his chest.

“—don't make this about  _you,_ Cullen. It wasn't your fault.”

“I love you.”

“I  _need_  you.” I taste the salty remnants of my tears on his lips as he kisses me.

My skin pebbles in the chill of the air from the open doors of the secluded balcony. His shirt is wet where my body pressed against his. The twilight songs of birds mix with our breathless sighs and needy moans.

“I swore to myself that I only wanted to hold you.” He rasped, between kisses, his hands and mouth flitting from one spot to the next, as if he wants to touch me everywhere at once. “But now that you're in my arms...  _Maker, Kit_ —is it always like this with you?”

“Cullen, it's  _never_  like this.”

His fingers trace over the back of my thigh and slip between my legs from behind. His breath catches, fingers clenching, as he drags my hips forward, against the rough fabric that covers his arousal. All the while he mumbles a litany of things he wants to do to me—a dark contrast to the sweetness of his declaration of love only moments before.

My fingers tangle in the laces of his breeches. I swear as he once again drags me against the fabric. The friction is rough and delicious against my nakedness but it’s not what I want. I want to feel his bare skin against mine. I huff in frustration and turn. I make quick work of the knots when Cullen groans and pulls me toward his mouth, his tongue dancing along my—

 _Oh. Holy. Fuck. That's. Better._ I think, possibly say aloud, as my hips jerk against his lips and tongue and fingers, his erection bobbing free of its confines.

“Maker's breath!” He cries as I stroke my tongue against him. His hips arch off the floor, completely, and he begs against my overly sensitive flesh. “ _Please._ ”

His breath comes in shallow ragged pants as his trembling fingers bite into my jutting hips. Need rides low in my belly and prickles between my thighs. I am too far gone to be self-conscious about our position. He tastes of salt and musk and pleasure. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=26J0uDIGErM
> 
> Thank you SO SO SO much for all the kudos and comments that I've received so far. And while I'm endeavoring to communicate more with all of you than I have with previous publications, my introvertedness is completely overwhelmed. If I don't respond/haven't responded, because I will no doubt lapse back into silence once again--a failing that is entirely my own, please know that your comments and kudos are no less valuable to me and I appreciate them all. ❤
> 
> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	29. I Doughnut Know?

“I'm too old for this,” I complain, triggering a mushroom cloud of travel-dust as I flop onto the bedroll.

We collapse, sore and travel weary, into our tent together. Griping, rather than groping for a change, and groaning about our aches and pains. His arms wrap around me, his chest pressed to my back. Cullen’s chin rests on the top of my head and my hair clings to his three-day growth of a beard. I sigh and snuggle into his warmth, shunning the chilly air that signals our ascent into the Frostbacks, feeling soothed as contentment eases its way through my aching joints and muscles.

“Me too,” he agrees, into the skin of my sandy neck.

We're traveling ahead of the bulk of the Inquisition's forces. Cullen is eager to see me nestled back into the safety that is Skyhold. We've received a constant stream of dispatches, couriers, ravens—honestly, it's a ridiculous influx of communication considering we're continuously on the move—keeping  _the Commander_  informed and up-to-date of the Inquisition's movements, whereabouts, and the various other urgent vaguery that his position dictates, the entire time that we've been traveling. As much as I wanted to roll my eyes at the constant intrusion, it did have its benefits. I soon learned that Blackwall was released on two conditions: first, conscription into the Grey Wardens and second, that the Inquisition relinquished any claim to judge the surviving members of the Chantry sect that was responsible for our kidnapping and imprisonment. The remaining sect members had been promptly hanged by Orlais. I tried not to think about  _that_ —any of it, really. I was doing my best to compartmentalize, to reflect on that time in minute segments in order to deal with everything that had happened as best I could.

I'm not sure how healthy  _that_ is, but psychotherapy isn't really a  _thing_  here in Thedas. So, I am dealing as best I can in ways that don't make me feel completely overwhelmed— _on my own_.  In other words, like my magic, I'm not confronting or dealing with anything, at all. I also have no doubt that this post-traumatic-procrastination method of mine may backfire spectacularly at a really inconvenient time in the future if I don't hurry-up and turn myself into a functioning adult. At my age, I know I should know better.

At the moment, nestled deep in the soothing embrace of a pair of heavily muscled arms, I’m not questioning much and I’m not feeling nearly so traumatized. Mostly, I’m reveling in my good fortune of having been rescued and that I am now wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and safety.

“I'm going to retire.” Cullen announces suddenly, jerking me back the present and I realize he doesn't mean _'go to sleep'_  when he says,  _'retire.'_   “After this is over. Cassandra, Rylen,  _someone_  can take over. There's time to establish a succession plan and mentor the next Commander.”

“Are you sure?” I hedge my voice barely above a whisper.

“I joined the Templars to serve. Now that I'm no longer a part of the Order, I want my life to have meaning beyond  _military service_.”

“But the Inquisition is more than just military— _in theory_ ,"  _although with all the battles and the fighting, it's sometimes hard to distinguish_ that _from the rest,_ I add to myself.

“No, you're right... But  _Maker,_ Kit—I've seen enough bloodshed and atrocities. _Participated_  in more than enough in Kirkwall and  _before_... It wasn't— _wasn't_  until I met _you_  that I could see myself as something  _more._  That I wanted to be something more. The Inquisition gave me a purpose and hope when I had none—but you've given me  _life_.”

“Oh. My. Andraste. that's sappy.” I sniffle, wiping tears from my eyes. He traces the shell of my ear with his finger and my heart rate speeds up. And, I marvel at how he can set my whole body aflame with such an insignificant touch.

He purrs something in agreement, knowing full well what he's doing before his teeth and tongue follow the same path.

He’s done discussing retirement, for now. He’s done talking about anything for that matter.

Gentle and unhurried, he proceeds with deliberate slowness. Too exhausted for more enthusiasm—or, at least, I am. He peels the clothes from my body, exposing me to his mouth inch by inch, savoring me like a delicate confection of spun sugar that he never wants to end. His self-control is belied only by the harshness of his own breathing, and the sheen of sweat across his brow. I arch against him. Completely undone. His release chasing my own.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	30. A Matter of Thyme

It's dusk when we reach Skyhold and trudge our way into Cullen's tower. A pile of reports, lay forsaken on his desk in favor of joining me for a bath. Most of the Inquisition's forces are still on their march back from Adamant. The Inquisitor and her political entourage will be several days from their return with the finalization of Blackwall's release and his return to Inquisition custody. It is likely this will be the only chance of a bath alone, together, unless arrangements are made to drag a tub into Cullen's quarters. A frivolous thing he'd, no doubt, strongly object. For good measure, he'd locked the door and instructed a guard that the baths were to remain unavailable until we were done.

“What does retirement look like?” I asked, massaging his soap-slick feet watching his eyes roll back into his head with a growl that made the water shiver. The baths are generously sized. Big enough for multiple people to wash together and kept warm with fire runes. Dagna had developed an ingenious method of indoor plumbing, which provides water to the baths and kitchens, all retrofitted to harness the underground spring which sources the waterfall beneath the castle prison.

“Maker... It looks like _this_ —Every. Single. Night.” He chuckles, eyes closed, wiggling his toes. He's quiet for a long moment before responding more seriously. “I'd thought about—establishing a sanctuary for former templars. Somewhere safe where they can receive treatment and recover from lyrium addiction. Learn new ways of life—maybe farming or fishing, other trades to help them be self-sufficient. Maybe even have healers— _mages_ —to help ease their recovery and help repair some of the damaged relationships with the circles. I thought I could ask Josie for some advice on funding, calling on political favors and the like...”

“I think our Ambassador lives for separating nobles from their money—you should have _no_ difficulty there.” I agree.

“Does that sound like something you'd like as well?” He asked.

“What? And leave all this?” I tease.

“I— _things_ will be _different_ then. I don't imagine that Ellana will want to retain the Inquisition after—well, should we... _survive._ You'll no longer be in danger from Orlais or the Chantry. I—I'd understand if you'd want to move on—find your own place in this world...with— _without me_.” Cullen Rutherford was giving me an out, in case I didn't want to be married to him! Holy Maker! Thedas really was some kind of upside-down place.

“Cullen—“ I sigh heavily. “Do you really need to ask?”

“In a way, I suppose yes—“ His breath was a sharp exhale as I grazed my teeth along his jaw and straddled his lap. “ _Maker's breath,_ Kit! I'm trying to be serious.”

“Cullen...” I nipped at that beautiful scar on his upper lip, smoothing the bite with a swipe of my tongue, and his hips bucked beneath mine. I'm quickly losing my concentration as he presses closer, his eyes growing dark with need. Had I never shared my feelings with him before? I'm taken aback by the realization that I had not—not really. I realize that for all my misgivings about marrying Cullen, it seemed he had none about me and had given himself completely without the benefit of knowing if this arrangement has meant anything more than a means to an end for me. “I _am_ being serious. I'm crazy in love with you. I want to make a life with you— _anywhere_ —as long as it's _not_ Orlais. I know of a beautiful spot near a lake— _oomph_ —“

Anything else I have to say is lost as his mouth crashes down on mine, one hand at the back of my head and the other on my lower back, pinning me against his chest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Go check out her stuff and give her some kudos!


	31. Dill with It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've interrupted this smut broadcast to return you to some irrelevant plot. Irregularly posted smut will return in a chapter or two.

Somehow, by some fluke of nature or Andrastian miracle, the kitchens and staff were now operating at such peak efficiency that I had a solid measure of free time which I could devote to testing recipes for future use, as well as focus on separate and more elaborate menus for visiting guests and dignitaries.

We'd even procured our very own Orlesian pastry chef who was the antithesis of Orlesian and an absolute delight to be around. A tiny wisp of an elf with cotton-candy pink hair, who looked every inch a confection herself, who shared the same enthusiastic giddiness as Dagna. Which was for the best, as my dessert aptitude plateaued at cobblers, pies, and buckles. I'd even caught Solas taking a break from his murals, lounging in the kitchens with a plate full of petit fours, seemingly as enchanted by Dulcet as he was with her pâtisserie.

“Commander.” The bald elf greeted nonchalantly.

“Solas.” Cullen nodded toward the other man. “Kit, if you have a moment?”

I nodded, my mouth filled with the greedier half of a tiny cake. I shared the remainder with Cullen, who grumbled then groaned in pleasure at the sugar covered pastry, much to my amusement.

“Where are we going this time?” I asked casually, linking my fingers through his as we walked through the courtyard.

“I—Maker's breath! I hadn't—wasn't—erm,” he stuttered and blushed beautifully before clearing his throat. “ _These_ are the Inquisition's trainers. They are elite and specialized in their own fields of magic. I've received special dispensation from the Inquisitor for you to use them for your training as well.”

 _Oh._ I bit back my disappointment and frantically searched my brain for excuses. “Cullen....” I whined.

“You've procrastinated on this matter long enough, Kit. Being the templariest of _former_ templars I must put my former-templar-y foot down. I leave for the Shrine of Dumat in two days. If I must leave you, I would like to know that you're, at the very least, _learning_ to protect yourself.”

He turned on his heel and left me standing alone in the mud, after making introductions, in front of Viuus Anaxas. “Dead— _people_?” I grimaced.

“We are of this world, and as with any piece that seeks to leave its element, there is a void when we abandon the mortal. It must be that this would hold our returning to the Maker. It must be that we should seek balance. It must be that the Maker's first children aid the second.”

“Uh-huh _._..” I nodded. “So, I've heard that there is non-combat related magic? How can I learn that?”

“I am Viuus Anaxas, _venerated_ in the ways of the _Mortalitasi_ , and _you_ ask _me_ to teach you the ways of a common hedge mage?”

“I don't know what a hedge mage is? I guess? Yes?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“But—“

“No. You will follow me.”

“Uh—“

“And, you will say no more to me.” He huffed.

“Excuse me?”

Leading me back across the courtyard until he spotted Solas emerging from the kitchen with his much-diminished plate of pastel cakes. “You there! This one wishes to learn the ways of the hedge mage.”

“Wait!” Solas and I yell at the retreating figure of Viuus, who dismisses us with a wave of his hand.

Solas looks me over for a long moment and frowns deeply, before speaking. “Meet me tomorrow. When you're ready.”

 


	32. Bitch, Peas!

“How did it go?” Cullen asks, sitting on the bar stool next to me. His armor was off. Instead, he was dressed simply in a linen tunic and his black breeches.

“Fine.”

“Good. Who did you choose to train you?”

“I didn't.”

“You... didn't.” He repeats, voice flat. “Kit?”

“Hmm?” I replied, taking another sip of what was only, sadly, my second Ferelden ale.

“What happened?”

I answer with a disgusted noise that would make Cassandra proud.

“Wait—are you... _mad_ at me?”

“No. Yes. I don't know? _Maybe._ ”

“I see.” He tries not to smirk, nodding infinitesimally toward Cabot in a way that earns him his own mug of ale. “Talk to me.”

“I'm mad. I don't know what to say? I'm not mad at you, but I am mad because of you. And Viuus is a stuck-up asshole who called me a bush mage—”

“— _hedge_ mage.”

“Whatever. I start training with Solas tomorrow.”

“Solas?”

“That's what I said. _Solas_. And you're leaving. _Again._ And, I miss you already. So right now I want to be drunk.”

“There you two are!” Varric said, standing on tip-toes to clasp each of our shoulders. “We almost had to start without you.”

“Now isn't a good time, Varric,” Cullen groused.

“Besides, it looks like you and your lady friend could use the distraction.” Varric continued.

“ _Wife_. She's _my wife_ and—“ Cullen clarifies, unhelpfully.

“—since the Iron Lady has dragged the Inquisitor off to the Exalted Plains to hunt some poor endangered species—I've organized a little game of Wicked Grace.”

“We're in.” I agreed, easing from my bar stool.

“We haven't finished discussing—“ Cullen begins as Varric shrugs and leaves us alone.

“—Cullen, I'm mad. I'm embarrassed. I'm not ready to talk about my... _feelings._ ” I take his hand and lead him toward the table where eight of the Inquisition's members are already seated. One seat remained.

“Grab a seat, we're ready to start,” Varric announces at our approach. “Deal them in would you Ruffles?”

“I do hope I remember the rules. It's been ages since I played a game of wicked grace.” Josephine blushes sheepishly.

“You seem to have enough people. I have a thousand things to do.” Cullen rubs the back of his neck, still hesitant to join in.

Dorian smirked. “Losing money can be both relaxing and habit forming. Give it a try.”

“Curly, if any man in history ever needed a hobby, it's you.” Adds Varric.

“Cullen, I don't know how to play,” I whisper, wrapping my fingers around his.

He studies me for a moment, his gold eyes unreadable before tugging me toward the muscled warmth of his chest, and sighs. “For you— _anything._ ” He says, pressing his lips against mine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize I'm probably the only one excited about this but... 100 kudos in less than a week and a half! *Various inarticulate noises and squees and flails* Thank you all so much for your comments and your kudos and your subscriptions and your bookmarks! I'm feeling all the feels. <3
> 
> And thank you for reading!


	33. That's What Cheese Said

I stumble back from the warmth of Cullen's chest, dazed.

“Are we playing cards or what?” Demanded Bull. 

Cullen sat down in the vacant seat, pulling me unceremoniously onto his lap. One arm banded tightly around my waist, the other possessively stroking my hip, pinning me between himself and the table surface, while Josephine dealt.

“Was that our first argument?” Cullen whispers, fingers ghosting along the fringe of new curls around my ear.

“Which part?” I whisper back, turning my head toward him catching a glimpse of his expression, no longer unreadable but hungry as he stares at my mouth.

“Are three drakes better than a pair of swords?” Cassandra asks with a disgusted noise. “I can never remember.”

“Seeker, remember how I said, ' _don't show your hand to anyone at the table?'_ The same goes for announcing it to the table.” Varric laughs.

“Forgive me?” He asks while tracing his thumb across the swell of my lower lip, his growing arousal pressed against my backside. 

“Cullen...” my voice registered somewhere between a warning and a plea. I swallow thickly and press a little closer, hoping no one has noticed. They hadn't. Or at least, they were all sufficiently good at pretending to be so engrossed in their cards that no one made an issue of the newlyweds behaving shamefully newlywed-y. Save Cullen who groaned in my ear.

“There's a crown on his head, but a sword too. His head didn't want either,” Cole says, turning the two-dimensional character of his card this way and that.

Varric chuckles. “Don't talk to the face cards, Kid.”

“Dealer starts,” Josephine interrupts. “Oh... I believe I'll start at— _oh_ , three coppers! Do you think that's too daring? Maybe I'll make it one...? No! Boldness! Three it is.”

“Seriously?” Bull sighs dropping a fistful of coins on the table. “Who starts at three coppers? Silver. Or go home.”

“Sounds good,” Blackwall adds tossing his silver into the pot.

“Bolder the better, right? I'm in.” Dorian said.

“Me too,” says Varric who'd turned toward us, “ _Well_ , are you in?”

“Almost.” Purred Cullen against my skin, before tossing a bag of coins on the table. “Deal us in Josephine.”

I pick up my cards, taken aback by their artistry, while Cullen continues his onslaught, pressing his lips against my ear while whispering the meaning of each card and how it's to be played, sending shivers down my spine. My nipples were hard, rubbing against the fabric of my shirt and I squirmed in his lap, earning a sharp intake of breath against my ear. Inwardly, I cringed at the display we must be making.

This was going to be a long card game.

_Shit._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I know. My tenses are all over the place.


	34. Say Jell-O to My Little Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scandalous, Cullen.

“The poor recruit ran into the dining hall in nothing but his knickers. And this... profound silence fell over the hall as seventy mages and thirty templars all turned to stare, at once.” Cullen's hand slid from my waist to the inside of my thigh beneath the table, as he leaned forward telling the story, and I forgot how to breathe. “Then a slow round of applause began until every soul was on their feet. A standing ovation.”

Josephine burst into a fit of what could only be described as perfection in feminine giggling, drawing every eye toward her—including mine. He took advantage of the distraction and pushed my thighs farther apart, palming me through the soft darkened samite of my breeches.“What did he do?” She asked, breathless from her dainty outburst.

“Saluted. Turned on his heel. And marched out like he was in full armor.” Blackwall roared in full belly laugh. I made a strangled sound and tried my best to fake a smile, sweat beading on my upper lip.

Now I understood why he'd asked for forgiveness earlier. It wasn't for our pseudo-argument, it was proactive apologizing. I was going to kill him.

“He did not?!” Gasped Cassandra, slamming her fist on the table. I jumped, leaning into his touch and my lecherous husband grinned into the curve of my neck.

“Good man!” Dorian said, approvingly.

“Ha! You're shitting us!” Exclaimed Bull, slapping his knee with a laugh. A thumbnail raked over the seam of my pants, and I caught my moan just in time—my breath leaving me in a hiss.

“That's how you know it's true. I could never put that in a book. Too unlikely.” Varric added. Fingers tugged at the laces to my breeches. I jumped from Cullen's lap. “You okay, Snacks?”

“Yes, thank you. I—erm...just remembered, as much as I'd love to see your Commander lose his shirt in a game of Wicked Grace... there is a thing we—uh _,_ should discuss.” I said, disjointedly, while running up the tavern stairs.

Cullen caught me somewhere between the second and third floors, dragging me back into his embrace with a searing kiss, his fist in my hair to crane my mouth toward his, while the other slid under the waistband of my breeches.

“You're not wearing any smalls. _Again._ ” He gasped, fingers sliding between my thighs as I rolled my hips. “Maker—” I could only moan in response as he guided us the rest of the way up the stairs into a darkened corner his hands working feverishly at the laces that held my pants secure, his mouth never leaving mine.

“Cullen— _Cullen_ we can't.” I panted as he guided the fabric down my hips, spreading my legs wide. He dutifully ignored the insincerity of my protest. The thrill of discovery only seeming to turn me on more. _Seriously, Kit? Public sex?_  “Someone might walk by and... _see us._ ”

_What's wrong with you?  What's next?_

He chuckled against the back of my leg, breath tickling bare skin as he guided my foot from the hem. “No one comes up here because of Cole.”

“Oh.” I breathed. “ _Oh._ ” I moaned feeling him press between my thighs, his hand under my shirt. His mouth hot against my neck, biting and sucking on the sensitive skin. He tugged me backward, into his lap, seated on the small set of stairs to the tower. One hand gripping my breast, just this side of pain. Spread wide and pressed tight against his pelvis. Fingers dancing across my skin where our bodies joined.

_Shameless._

Where anyone could see— _everything_.

He whispered things that made me blush even more, growling my name in my ear in perverse benediction. My fingers clenched in his hair. My hips bucking in wanton need of the friction that he happily supplied.

“Fuck.” I panted, loudly. Too loudly. We both paused—as did the conversation two floors below—for a moment.

A situation he quickly remedied, by clasping his free hand over my mouth, muffling the lewd noises that I was helpless to stop. His own cries of release muffled into my shoulder.

“ _Maker..._ ”

I knew I'd bear the mark of his teeth for days.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to save this smut for the weekend... it's close enough, amiright?


	35. Taco Dirty to Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some pillow talk and pillow... activities, before the Commander leaves on his next mission. Smut to be replaced by plot in the regrettably near future.

“Perhaps a real skylight? One made of glass, that we can open and close.” I stretched lazily, enjoying the soft breeze that rustled through the leaves that decorated the gaping hole in Cullen's roof, my nipples rubbing against the lustrous cotton sheets of his Orlesian style bed. Momentarily wondering if he was aware we were sleeping on _the enemy._

“Hmm...” Cullen purred, stilling his fingers from tracing invisible swirls across the naked skin of my back and drifting lower.

“Wherever we end up next—well, provided we don't die, that is.”

“You have such a way with words.” He mumbled pressing a line of kisses down my spine, fingers following.

“Have you spoken to them about leaving?” I didn't think I needed to clarify who _them_ was, we both knew I meant the other leaders of the Inquisition.

He paused for a moment “Not in any official capacity—I haven't _had_ to. I think the assumption is that I'll— _we'll_ leave when this is over. Start a life together. An _official_ life together...away from all this. Are you having second thoughts?”

“Oh my God, no. I sense a but?”

“A very nice one...” he praised, palming the anatomy in question.

“That's most definitely not what I meant.”

He sighed. “There hasn't been time. We've tracked Samson to his stronghold. A place called the Shrine of Dumat.”

“I think this is the most you've ever shared with me about one of your missions... are you worried?”

“Perhaps— _a little_. The closer we get to Samson—to Corypheus—the more danger we're all in. I do not like that I'm responsible for adding you to that danger.” He paused, fingertips resting at the base of my spine. “I can stop talking about this if you prefer?”

“No. I'd prefer that you always talk to me about...” I gasped as his fingers slipped from my spine to between my thighs, lifting my hips eagerly. “ _Anything._ ”

“ _Kit.._.” He groaned, breath fanning across the back of my thigh. His hands roamed across the curve of my rear. My hips stuttered. _Surely he wasn't thinking of..._ “do the depths of my depravity know no end with you?” He asked, more of himself than of me, before sealing his mouth over my skin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm looking for additional food puns! As this culinary *masterpiece* has way more chapters than originally intended, the pantry is running low. Please add some to the comments if you have any that haven't been used. I can't promise that I'll be able to use all of them


	36. Quiche My Ass

Sweat beaded my upper lip and dripped down my temple from the strain. Clearly, learning how to summon my magic on command was a whole lot more difficult than I'd anticipated. No wonder mages were always so damn skinny. My muscles quaked like I was in my third hour of CrossFit.

“You're capable of more, Kit. _Try harder_. Remember Halamshiral!”

_The thick wet sound of a throat being cut. Blood spattering to the floor like water wrung from a dishcloth._

“Actually, _Solas,_ I've been trying _not_ to remember Halamshiral,” I said through my teeth.

_The gurgle of air as it wheezed from a nearly headless neck. The sharp, coppery scent of blood and bile and the stench of intestinal matter from swords that rendered through unsuspecting bellies. Heart racing so fast it hurt to breathe. Choking on my fear. The pull of magic needled along my skin like a swarm of biting insects._

“Barrier.” He ordered.

We'd made a deal. Rather Cullen had made a deal on my behalf without my knowledge. A thing which I had a mind to discuss with him in _great detail_ upon his return to Skyhold. I could learn one practical spell for every defensive or offensive spell learned. My first challenge was to learn a “simple” barrier after which I could learn how to light a fire or a candle unaided from kindling or matches. Probably the candle, because that would be the least useful thing I could learn. And I had no doubt that the second useless skill I would be learning was how to tell whether water was wet.

“Ouch!” I squealed. A sharp white sting of electricity hit my skin, triggering an instinctive bubble of protection around me that flickered for half a second before popping. My shaking legs collapsing, sending me flailing to the ground in a heap.

“ _You_ zapped me!” I lay on the damp earth gasping for air, in the shadow of the stone keep, watching puffs of white clouds drift overhead.

“ _You_ made a barrier.” He smirked, irksomely, dropping to the grass beside me.

“But you _zapped_ me.”

“If you could go back, would you?” All the breath left my body in a single exhale and my stomach dropped to my toes. I wrenched my head toward him with such abruptness that my neck cracked.

“Go back... where?” I asked, mouth dry and not from exertion.

“To the world you came from—if there was a way, would you go back?” His nonchalance belied the seriousness of the subject, and I stared at him in what could only be described in abject horror. Was he not the same Solas who'd argued that I could never go back upon my initial arrival? And now, now that I was happy here, had seemingly found a place for myself, had found _love_ , he was _what, exactly_ —offering to take it all away?

“I... I don't kn—why are you asking?” My voice was hollow behind the roar in my ears.

Solas shrugged and stood. “You did well today, Kit. We'll continue again, tomorrow.”

 


	37. Fromage et Tois

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the rush to get this thing out, I didn't proof-read at all. I'll edit later (and cringe), no doubt. And after a few minor updates, I'm wondering Josephine has earned me an "E" rating?

Would I go back, if I could? I found myself re-wondering the same questions that had plagued me throughout the day, since training with Solas, as I dragged my leaded limbs into bed, alone, that night. The sky was still purple beyond the hole in the roof. I was exhausted, emotionally and physically, and I despaired that we would never get that roof fixed.

Returning home was an idea which I hadn't tortured myself with much after having the notion firmly rejected by Solas—no less, shortly after my arrival. What had changed to make returning home possible? Was it possible or was it merely Solas being Solas and his constant need to keep everyone just a little off balance?

Did I want to stay? Rather should I stay if I had the choice? What was left for me back home? A broken relationship? My cat? My family? I didn't even have a place to live when I'd disappeared. I'd been crashing on my ex-fiancee's couch until I could find something of my own. God, just thinking about how awkward that was made me feel grateful I'd seemingly disappeared into the ether.

I couldn't help but wonder if my being here robbing Cullen of his real destiny—a chance at real love? Meaning a destiny and love from his own time and place.

Ugh.

I felt the tears stream down my cheeks before registering that I was about cry. Again.

Oh. My. God. Cullen. He was crazy about me. And, if I was honest with myself, I was just as crazy about him. Could I be selfless enough to let him have a life without me?

I rolled from the bed onto the floor, knowing what I needed to do. I landed on my hands and knees, the wide plank floors stinging my palms. With or without me, I could make sure that Cullen had a future, the future he'd talked about and said he'd wanted. Briefly, I wondered how I would descend the ladder when my legs felt as sturdy as gelatin, before just going for it rather than overthinking. Instead, I devoted all my concentration to my task at hand.

I tightened the sash of my robe before opening the door to Josephine's office. I was not prepared for the scene that greeted me. Josephine, Blackwall, and Dulcet tangled together in a mess of arms, legs, beard and breasts. And, talking. So, much talking.

"...put your finger in her ass, while you fuck her with your tongue—" Josephine panted, one hand working vigorously between her legs while the other was anchored firmly into the thick wall of Blackwall's chest hair. 

"Oh, Josie—oh," Dulcet cooed, hands running wildly all over her flushed body as Blackwall's hand disappeared from her hip. "Oui, oui, oui!"

"When you're done with her you can lick your come from my pussy while she sucks you off," the antivan purred, "that sweet, eager little mouth, wrapped tight around your big, hard cock."

 _Good, Lord was this really the same Ambassador whose strongest curse words were 'Andraste's Knickers'?_ I stood shocked, entranced? Spellbound by the litany of the Ambassador's dirty dialogue.

"Later we'll fuck. Just us girls. Rubbing our wet pussies together. While he watches. Painting our tits with his come—"

"Oui! Baise-moi bien, plus dur, bête homme bête, baise oui! _Oh—Ooouiii,_ " the Orlesian elf rambled in Orlesian.

"— _Oh_ my God." I gasped, somewhat horrified and somewhat curious if she'd be willing to offer some pointers, startling Dulcet mid-orgasm.

“ _Oh_ —Oh Creators!” Dulcet gasped, eyes wide, hips stuttering, slipping from Blackwall's face, unable to stop her completion.

"Oh, sorry!" I cringed.

“What. The. Fuck.” He cursed glaring over the elven baker's pert buns, and the finger that was buried between, his beard glazed from Dulcet's arousal.

“Andraste's knickers,” Josephine swore, covering her perfect bronze Antivan bosom with her perfect Antivan manicure.

“I'm—I'm _so_ , so sorry. I'll come back later.” I said, blushing my way out of the office.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miss the days when I wasn't the one hosting the holidays. The days when I got to show up, enjoy and go home. Now I'm in charge. Now I get to pre-clean and cook and serve and host and clean-up and *cracks whip*. Which means I'll be back very late next week sometime and hopefully I'll be VERY hungover. So enjoy some pseudo-smut courtesy of Josephine, Blackwall, and Dulcet, as they get down and dirty and very descriptive.


	38. Beet Me To It

“Oh, God! Not you.” I gasped, stumbling and slipping from the last three rungs of the ladder onto the floor of Cullen's office. I landed in my usual undignified sprawl of limbs and a tangle of nightclothes, in front of Josephine who had arranged—without the knowledge of Skyhold's head Chef, _my knowledge_ —a breakfast spread fit for Orlesian royalty which covered the entirety of Cullen's currently unused desk.

“Ah, yes. Well... Good Morning.” She began in her haltingly endearing Antivan accent which was almost enough to make me forget about that accent commanding a threesome with my star pastry chef and a semi-pardoned murderer and words like cocks and pussies and... _yeergh._ “Please, have a seat. I thought to offer an apology of sorts.” She offered, calmly sipping her espresso. I stared, furiously at everything _but_ the Inquisition's Ambassador as I sat in Cullen's chair.

“I cannot excuse what you walked in on last night in my office. It is sufficient to say, that going forward, more discrete locations for my _liaisons_ will be found.”

“Um...okay,” I answered buttered scone turning to plaster in my throat. Really, what more could I say? What more could be expected of me in regards to the situation we now found ourselves in as a result of the situation we'd found ourselves in last night? In all honesty, it was nearly impossible to look at her without imagining her naked and _conducting_. My cheeks flamed like Cullen's at the thought, and so I added, stupidly, “thank you?”

“That being said,” she continued, undeterred, “I find myself in the unusual and awkward position of owing a favor, should you find it in yourself to _never_ mention the events in question, to anyone. _Ever_.”

“I see,” I said. “That shouldn't be too difficult seeing how I'd love to scrub my eyes and ears with some bleach. Not that we have that here... there is _a thing_ that I was hoping to discuss with you—about Cullen, _for_ Cullen, really...”

“Go on...”

And, I did, explaining in great detail, Cullen's ideas for retirement and my ideas for the little retreat built upon the banks of a serene inland body of water just outside the village of Honnleath. A place where templars could find a life away from the order, free from lyrium, learn new occupations and to *gasp* coexist with mages.

“Is that all?” She asked, seemingly dumbfounded.

“I know it's a lot. We're willing to pay—“

“—Kit, no. This...this is no trouble. What I meant was...that you have one of the leading members of the most powerful organizations in Thedas indebted to you and you ask for a little plot of land for your husband, which we'd grant to him for his service anyway. Is there nothing else you'd like, that I can do for _you_?”

“Oh. Maybe some people to help build the place?”

“Andraste—but you're too adorable.” She leaned across the table and kissed my cheek and giggled. “It would be my pleasure.”

“And a skylight in the master bedroom,” I added because I felt the need to be greedy which only earned me another giggle.

Maker's breath... I could only hope Cullen had been serious about this retirement plan because it sounded like he was going to get it whether he wanted it or not.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is late. This is unedited. I caught the annual post-Christmas plague. Happy f-ing New Year. I've missed you all.


	39. I've Bean Thinking About You

The remainder of Cullen's time away was relentless a barrage of magical training from Solas, peppered with dignitary dinners. Chain lightning, bouillabaisse, winter's grasp, tartiflette savoyarde, lightning bolt, quiche lorraine, peaceful aura, basque piperade with Frostback grouse eggs, winter stillness... could I do anything with fire? The _one thing_ that would be remotely helpful for cooking, such as to produce an instant flambe? Nope. Not a lick of inferno magic resided within me.

After today's lesson in magical disappointment, Josephine had summoned me to her office to review the plans for the templar recovery center outside Honnleath. Land had been requisitioned and granted, and plans had already been drawn up, within record time even for the Inquisition's Ambassador.

There were five buildings total. Three main buildings for the primary stages of recovery and progress. The first would function as a hospital for those suffering acute withdrawal symptoms and related sicknesses. The second would be to learn to coping mechanisms and combined therapies to deal with the after-effects of lyrium addiction and guide mage-templar reparations. The third's primary function was vocational as returning to military service wouldn't be practical in most cases.

A skeleton staff could choose to live on-site or in the neighboring village of Honnleath. However, the goal was to make the center predominantly self-sufficient and have those in more advanced stages of recovery aid those beginning their recovery.

Last, was a building to serve as a single mess and gathering hall, and another on the opposite end of the lake estate, as Josephine called it a small cottage for myself and Cullen. I was inclined to call it a small manor house with 5 bedrooms complete with servants quarters, carriage house, stables and formal gardens. That would need to be scaled back to something _slightly_ less grandiose for Cullen to approve.

“Josie, you have outdone yourself—“ the end of my sentence ended on a muffled squeak as warm, sword roughened hands slipped beneath my shirt and spun me around and a mouth was on mine.

“Commander, really...” Josephine chastised somewhere in the distance, as papers crinkled beneath the press of my backside against the Antivan's sturdy desk, “...you are in _my_ office.”

“Maker's breath. I've missed you.” He whispered, forehead pressed against mine, eyes dark, breathing elevated, hips tilted deliciously between my own, reaffirming that he had missed me very much indeed.

“I'm sure you're wife wishes you missed a bath half as much. I can smell you from here Commander.” Leliana groused as she passed toward the war room without stopping. “Let's get this meeting over with— _quickly—_ so you weary travelers can reacquaint yourselves with proper hygiene.”

“Until later,” Cullen smirked, pulling away, not-so-subtly adjusting the full crotch of his dusty and mud-spattered breeches as most of the Inquisition's council members were now trudging toward their infamous meeting room. All except for Cassandra, who received an eyeful. The Seeker made a disgusted noise and rolled her eyes, before shutting the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I know, you've probably had it up to your pretty little eyeballs reading about Cullen's lyrium-addiction curing retirement villa. I have no idea how a drug rehabilitation program should work but neither do Fereldens, so I'm terribly sorry if we're all mucking it up. Prepare yourselves: smut, incoming.
> 
> PS - The foods are real. Do yourselves a favor and Google them, Google them and drool.


	40. You're the Boss, Applesauce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Heavy smut ahead.

While I knew Cullen would be the only one to enter his office at this hour after returning from the Shrine of Dumat mission, the knowledge didn't keep me from startling from the warm cocoon of water of the bathing tub when the door to his office opened. Oiled water splashed over the rim of the large wooden tub as I failed to fully cover my nakedness with jasmine and rose scented arms, a carryover from my stay at Duke Bastien de Ghislain's estate.

The breeze from the open door pebbling my exposed skin and snuffing out most of the candles, while the Lion of Ferelden watched me from the doorway—unmoving—shadowed by purple twilight.

I sat unmoving—much like cornered prey—in the large wooden tub which had been rolled into his office sideways to fit through the doorway, and even then nearly didn't fit. It had only just been filled and was being kept warm with several fire runes. Several puddles collected beneath the roughened rim where the wood grain protruded like the fingerprints of a giant, from my graceless splashing.

“Cullen—”

“M-Maker's breath...” He stuttered, lurching himself from his reverie. Fingers fumbled on buckles and slipped against knots, while he tried desperately to shut the door behind him. Twice. Three times, swearing profusely, before managing to latch the lock then tore the gloves from his fingers.

I stepped from the tub, leaving a trail of perfumed water droplets that splattered into blooms across the flagstones. “Here... let me help.”

“Maker...Kit. You—I— _fuck_.“ He garbled, hands slipping across the perfumed oil that covered my skin as he dragged my mouth toward his for a hungry kiss. I reached for the buckles he'd struggled with only moments before, his hands stopping me with a bruising grip around my wrists. “No. I can't—I _need_ —turn- _turn_ around. _Now_. _Please!_ ” He ordered and begged. Breathless with his need, pushing me toward the tub while tearing at the laces of his breeches with shaking fingers and stumbling after me, tripping on the pant legs that clung stubbornly around his ankles.

When his hands found my hips they were bruising in the intensity of their grip and brief in contact.

“Andraste's fucking—“ He spat, his scabbard bounced impotently against the back of my knee and the buckle scraped against my tailbone.

Had he seriously just cock-blocked himself with his own sword? Under another circumstance I may have smirked, we may have even laughed together. But there was something so feral and desperate to him at the moment that I didn’t' know how to help him. “Cullen? Let me—“

“Kit, please. I need you. _Fuck_. I need _you_.” He swore over and over again, fighting with the buckle of his sword scabbard until I heard the armor clatter against the floor. Suddenly his hand was tight in my hair, the other tight on my hip pulling me back against him as he pressed into me on a sob, finding his release almost immediately.

We stayed there for a moment, his breathing heavy, his half armored body curled around mine while he returned to himself in pieces. His breathing returning to some semblance of normal and his fingers reaching up to curl around my breast while he pressed open-mouthed kisses on my shoulder.

“Maker... That wasn't very—“ he cleared his throat awkwardly, but I could feel his smile against the sweaty skin of my back, and his chest vibrated with laughter. “I have some making up to do, don't I?”

“No, Cullen it's fi—“ I began as he stroked the skin between us and promptly forgot how to brain words. He was still aroused as he pulled away. Slowly, divesting himself of the rest of his armor. Piece by piece. Sparing touches after each item was removed and added to the pile on the floor. Now I was the one who was slowly driven mad with need and without composure.

“Maker's breath, I've missed you.” He said as he finally kicked his breeches out of the way, kneeling on the folded pillow of his red mantle. “Spread your legs, Mrs. Rutherford.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *drops the mic*
> 
> So comments... yeah. I've apparently really dropped the ball on replying to those between sickness and holidays and the overall blanket excuse of being completely socially inept and oblivious to others. My apologies. It's not you. It's me. Really, it's me. I really do appreciate your feedback and words even though I cannot seem to communicate that appreciation for shit.


	41. Lettuce Taco'bout It Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy your smutcation. We will return to your regularly scheduled plot in the next chapter.

My mouth went dry. My skin was too small, too tight for my body. My knees trembled and my knuckles turned white where I gripped the tub too tight. Warm breath fanned between my thighs.

“More.” He insisted, nudging my knees further apart. His palm pressed against my lower back, tilting my hips toward him, just so.

“Cullen...” I whined. Desperate. Needy.

“Kit.” He answered, annoyingly self-assured, licking a path toward the wet aching flesh between my thighs. He growled against my skin when he reached the mingling evidence of our previous encounter, the warm vibration traveling all the way to my toes making them curl against the cold flagstone. Fingers clenched against my skin as he nipped and sucked, the only sign to betray his composure. His firm but gentle hands, not letting me slide down the splintery edge of the wooden tub to the floor in a boneless heap until two orgasms later.

“Aren't you tired?” I slurred as he guided me into the still warm and fragrant water. Magic be praised.

“Exhausted.” He confessed, his eyes heavy with a wry twist of his scarred lip before leaning over the edge of the tub and grabbing my bar of floral soap.

“You're going to smell like me,” I said, taking the bar and washcloth from his hands to wash the pungent smells of sweat and travel from his golden skin.

“Good.” He purred, stretching languidly beneath my ministrations. Cullen really did seem to enjoy being bathed. A sentiment that was emphasized by a masculine coo as I washed between his toes. I made myself a promise myself that I would make an effort to have more shared bath-time with the two of us in the future.

“Do you want to tell me what happened, at the Shrine?” I asked, as he returned the favor and began soaping my back.

“I—“ his hand stopped, mid circular motion, as he took a deep breath and pressed his head between my shoulder blades. His arms circled around my waist, drawing me close against him, as he exhaled a long shaking breath. “Later. I promise. Just let me have tonight.”

While I knew the events of the mission already, what I hadn't known until his arms trembled around my waist was how deeply those events had affected him. The tole all of these missions took on him. I should have and felt all the more foolish for it. Here was a man who was watching what was left of his former life crumble, Meredith, Maddox, Samson, they were all doomed to horrible ends, and Cullen was literally the only one left standing. I couldn't begin to imagine the guilt he would feel knowing their tragic ends.

“Alright,” I whispered. Slowly, his hands resumed their worshipful cleansing routine across my back. Tenderly reaching across the span of my shoulders, stretching across the span of my ribs, down to my hips. “Josie and I began working on _something_ while you've been away.”

“Is that so?” A handful of warm water soothed down the skin of my neck, sluicing the soapy bubbles away, the still warmer caress of hands following.“Turn.”

“I—um, yes, so I um talked to...” I began, again, sort of, breath catching and train of thought derailing as my neck and arms were washed, then torso and stomach, desire curling below.

“Go on...” he purred, wickedly, lifting my leg from the water and hooking it over the rim of the tub.

“Cul—“ I cleared my very dry throat, and tried again, “Cullen?”

“Go on...” he insisted, repeating the same process with my other leg, lifting my hips toward his arousal. The arousal that had yet to diminish the entire time we'd been in the tub. “Tell me what you and Josie have been doing while I've been away.” He whispered against the skin of my jaw, punctuating the end of his sentence with the sharp graze of his teeth.

I couldn't. I couldn't form words. I couldn't remember what words were. I had transcended beyond them into a mindless barrage of need. I wrapped my fingers tight in the curls against his scalp, dragging his mouth toward mine. The only thing that mattered to me now was the steady roll of his pelvis against mine. The only things that mattered were the moans that I couldn't stop. Moans that made his hands tremble and his hips stutter and whisper my name like it was his personal benediction.

Everything else could wait.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Hump Day.


	42. Raisin the Steaks

“Kit, when you have a moment, come by my office. I have more plans for your review.” Josephine said stopping by the kitchens for an early morning Antivan espresso and biscotti, before pressing a lingering kiss to the tiny elf's mouth before leaving. Honestly, there wasn't a thing Dulcet couldn't bake. And poor Solas, he still visited each afternoon like clockwork—as if he stood a chance. Little did he seem to know that Dulcet's plate was full, very full.

I finished reviewing the list of requisitions and inventory, against the menu plan for the next several days before signing approval and wandered through the dining hall toward the back stairs that lead to Josie's office. I'd still not told Cullen that I'd discussed, let alone that I'd moved forward with his retirement plan, with the members of the Inquisition and the more we progressed without him the less comfortable I became with the idea. I'd meant— _tried_ —to tell him when he returned from the Shrine of Dumat, but he'd— _we'd_ —been too _distracted_.

Cullen had been like a man possessed, one determined to keep me in a state of mindless bliss, unwilling to confide in me or open up to me. Even this morning I'd woken up with his head between my thighs. I took a deep steadying breath as I crested the stairs to Josie's office and pushed open the door. I would tell Cullen everything today.

The Inquisition's Ambassador lounged comfortably across the lap of the infamous Thom Rainier, fingers wrapped in his beard, on the couch in her office. “Oh! You're here! I didn't expect you so soon!” She exclaimed prettily.

Memories of my last encounter with these two in this office flashed before my eyes, unbidden, and I slapped my hand over my face to try to stop them. “I can come back, later!” I offered too loudly, unwilling to look any further.

“Don't be silly, Kit. We're _only_ talking.”

“I'll take my leave.” The newly inducted Grey Warden chuckled. “I think we've traumatized this one enough.”

“Will I see you later?”

“Of—“

“—Please, no. Just. Stop. Please.” I begged. Head swimming. Palms sweating. Vision white around the edges. Seriously? I got over watching a room full of people get slaughtered in front of me in Orlais. I'd yet to have a single nightmare over being kidnapped, held in a dungeon and tortured, _for weeks_ at the hands of religious fanatics. But, the thing that brought me to my PTSD knees was that damn Blackwall, Dulcet, and Josephine threesome? The brain works in mysterious ways. I gripped the edge of the sofa to steady myself, taking slow deep breaths.

“He's gone now, Kit,” Josie said with a bit more disdain than I would have preferred considering my discomfort. “Let's take these in the War Room, so we can spread them out.”

I cracked open my tightly shut eyes, peeling my hand off the couch—belatedly remembering _in great detail_ what had happened on that very couch. I wiped my hand on my pants with a grimace, the moment Josie's back was turned before I followed her into the Inquisition's inner sanctum. The room still smelled of the same cold stone with the warm vanilla mustiness of old books, and tallow candles who's spilled wax beaded across every surface like spilled pearls.

“I think, the last time I was in here was the day I married Cullen.” I reminisced aloud as Josie unrolled the sets of plans across the mostly unblemished northwestern quadrant above the Hissing Wastes and to the left the Ghislaine Estate. The room looked much the same, save for the handful of additional markers that now punctuated Thedas.

“You know, I do believe you're right?” The dark-haired Antivan studied me a moment and sighed. “I am glad you make him happy. I know he has had a troubled past, but he is a good man, I think, and he deserves the love you have given him.”

“I—“ I stuttered, unsure what to say, taken aback by her thoughtfulness and the sudden tightness of my throat and the warm crest of tears along my eyelashes. “Thank you, Josie. That means a lot.”

She nodded and cleared her throat, before gesturing to the front elevation of a building sketch on the table in front of us. “First things first, yes? I know it's Orlesian Revival but... This is _The Cottage_.”

“Are you kidding me? That's the house for me and Cullen? No. Just no. Josie that's enormous. Cullen. Will. Shit.” I blurted ungratefully, barely holding myself together—and by barely I mean not holding myself together at all as I looked at the three-storey monstrosity or was that four-storeys. It didn't matter. The thing was huge. It was a mansion.

“The architect suggested dawnstone—“

“You want to build an Orlesian house for the most Ferleden man in all of Ferelden and make it _pink?_ Please, please tell me you're joking?” I sagged against the table, my head in my hands.

“No, I'm quite—“

“Absolutely not!” Cullen roared, crashing through the door with so much force that both panels were sent banging into the stone wall on the opposite side until one hung limp and askew from its hinge. Josie and I jumped away at the noise and the unexpected fury. The building plans rolling shut so quickly from the table they snapped together like the shell of a startled clam.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You've already brought her into the War Room?” He yelled, face red, wrenching his hand through his disheveled hair. Curls stuck this way and that, looking as wild as his eyes. I could probably count on one hand the number of times I'd heard Cullen say the word fuck, and never in anger. This was not good. We'd reached an all-new range of Rutherford rage. The Lion of Ferelden was rabid. 

“Cullen, I was going to tell you...“ I began as the words died on my lips.

“She's already part of this?” He continued without acknowledging me before he turned and stalked toward me. “Was this _your_ idea? You learn a little magic and suddenly you think you can go into battle?”

“I—wait _...what?”_ I stammered, wilting under the burning intensity of his focus. Maker, he was big and scary, and so, so, hot. _Dammit. Not now, Kit. That is so not appropriate!_

“Commander, we have not discussed anything—“ Cassandra came up short, panting in the doorway. Leliana arriving sharp on the Seeker's heels, slipping past the warrior.

“I don't think we're talking about the same things?” I said, numb and confused, prickling tendrils of fear unfurling in my stomach.

“Definitely not,” Leliana confirmed. “Commander, if I may? We'd hoped to breach this discussion with a little more _tact_.”

“Well, consider it fucking breached Leliana. Start fucking explaining!” Cullen yelled sounding much more like me, than himself.

“Commander, please. Language.” Cassandra chastised.

“No. Just, no, Cassandra. What you're talking about—sending _my wife_ to war? Maker's— _fuck_. I won't have it...I will _not_ deliberately put her in danger.” He said, voice breaking, dragging me against the warm metal that covered his chest. His arms wrapped tight around me while he pressed his cheek to the top of my head. He'd turned his back toward everyone else in the room whether to subconsciously protect me or to hide the display of his emotions, I wasn't sure. “No.” He repeated, sounding more like a petulant child than the Commander of an army.

Several frustrated sighs sounded behind us. “She's a member of the Inquisition. We need everyone in the Arbor Wilds.”

“Cassandra, please, you're not helping,” Josephine suggested softly.

“She is my wife— _my_ heart!” Cullen thundered before guiding us from the room and out of the keep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many words. So many Cullen conflicts. So many feels. AND, so many kudos! We're over 200 now!!!!! ♡♡♡
> 
> CREDITS: This chapter was painstakingly beta-ed (in between my onslaught of other ramblings) by the very selfless and generous (and patient) [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris) who needs you to send coffees and hugs (and probably some booze--okay, a lot of booze), as I am the most mentally exhausting person that ever ever-ed. I thank you and the readers especially thank you.


	43. Olive You

“Cullen, stop.”

“Commander, I've a dispatch for you.” A nameless select of Leliana's hooded scouts jogged alongside us.

“Not now.” He growled and I wasn't sure who he was answering, or if it was each of us.

He didn't stop until we were safely inside his tower, with all doors locked. The tub was gone but the whisper of jasmine remained where the bathwater had trickled between the joints of the stone floor. Even then, he climbed the ladder to the second floor to put as much distance between us and them as possible. 

“Cullen, talk to me.” I panted as I reached the top rung. He was already on the bed. Seated on the edge of the mattress, his head in his hands. Layers of discarded armor were scattered across the floor in a mindless trail. “Please,” I said, stepping between his legs, and soothing my hand over his wayward curls.

“Was Josephine's debriefing not enough for you?” He mumbled.

“I was—we weren't... we were talking about something else,” I said lamely. Really, was now the best time to discuss the fact that I'd gone ahead without his permission and begun planning his retirement with his work colleagues without his permission? The more I thought about it, the more I realized there was no possible way _that_ discussion was going to go well. Luckily, we had a cornucopia full of more urgent matters to discuss.

“They're sending you to war.”

 I felt sick. My mouth was dry and sour, and my tongue sat heavy and swollen between my teeth. My fingers tingled. His tears were warm where he pressed his cheek into the palm of my hand, letting out a long wet breath. His hands slipped beneath the hem of my shirt and curled around my waist, tugging me closer, as if I was his only salvation. His last hope. I took a deep breath. I needed to keep it together right now, for him. I owed him that much.

 “There must be a misunderstanding? I'm sure they're not...sending me to war— _into battle_ —on the front lines so to speak?” I said with more calm and confidence than I felt. 

“You'll be there, at the battle. It's too close, Kit. I cannot guarantee your safety.”

“But not to join the fighting, specifically?” I clarified.

“You'll be assigned to the camp—where anyone could walk in and _accost_ you!”

I tried not to smile at his chivalry, as distraught as he was, but I failed. It was adorable knowing that dreamy Cullen Stanton Rutherford was so moved at the very notion that I might be— _gasp_ —accosted, like some virtuous Victorian maiden.

“Andraste forgive me, but should we lose this battle...”

“You can't let yourself think that way—you just, _can't_.”

“I need to know that I can protect you. That I won't fail you.” He said, pulling me into his lap. His fingers absently tucking and stroking the growing curls behind my ear. The way he looked at me, _still_ , with such reverance—as if he couldn't believe I was _his_ —managed to take my breath away.

“You won't fail me,” I promised, tilting his face to look into his eyes. “You could never fail me.”

He looked away for a long moment before speaking again, his voice steadier but had that far away quality that told me he was lost in his own thoughts. “In Kirkwall, my roommate, Samson, helped deliver letters between a mage named Maddox and his sweetheart. The Knight-Commander's _restrictions_ were unfair...to say the least, and disobedience was dealt with harshly. I—I _chose_ not to involve myself. They were...discovered. Samson was discharged from the order and—“ he took another deep shuddering breath, “—Maddox was made tranquil.”

“Cullen, you couldn't have known what would happen—”

“—couldn't I? I knew what Meredith was, we all knew the consequences—I was _Knight-Captain_.” He said, his words sharp and edged with venom. The way he said his former title left little doubt how much he despised the man he'd been in Kirkwall. “I knew her policies better than _anyone_. I knew, Kit. I _knew_.“

There it was, the could've, should've, would've's. The overwhelming guilt that motivated Cullen to overcompensate every day. The things that triggered his near mindless overprotective instincts toward me. The things that ate away at him more than his memories of abominations, of demons, of his ever-present craving for lyrium. The gnawing feeling that he had failed those who had needed him when they needed him most, and he had let it happen. And now, the one person who he admittedly cared most about in this world was about to go into a war zone and he knew better than anyone all the risks that that entailed, and it scared the shit out of him.

“I don't know if Meredith could have been reasoned with by then, but— _Maker_... I didn't _even try_ for Maddox, but Samson did.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Samson protected Maddox after he was made tranquil. _He_ —Maddox, not Samson—he was at the Shrine. He stayed behind. They _knew_ we were coming. He wanted to make sure there was nothing left that we could use against Samson and then he took his own life. He was _loyal_ to Samson until the end.”

“I love you,” I whispered into his curls. “And, I'm sorry. And, I wish I knew what to say to make this easier and better for you and I don't. All I know is that none of this is actually your fault and I love you.” Seriously? What more could I say to all that? So, I kissed him. He tasted of tears and need. One kiss melted into two. Then into five when our breathing grew heavy and each kiss melted into the next with no beginning and no end. 

Damned if I didn't forget to mention everything about his retirement plans. Again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANGST  
> 2 parts Anxiety  
> 1 part Dread  
> 1.5 parts Anguish  
> 1 generous pinch of Self Loathing
> 
>  
> 
> CREDITS WHERE CREDITS ARE DUE: [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris) had to beta this thing TWICE because I only got it half right the first time. Seriously, twice as many words were added. Then Valardoheris beta-ed them all over again. ♡


	44. Asausage Some Guilt

Cullen went stiff against my back, hissing before Josephine could finish her first sentence. It was early, and he'd skipped most of the metal parts of his standard uniform. His cloak draped lazily over a nearby chair. No doubt he would be impeccably militant by the time the masses of Skyhold awoke but this was the version I preferred. Raw and unguarded.

We stood in his usual position at the war table, my back was pressed tight against his chest, his arm secured around shoulders—in case he wanted to make another dramatic exit, I supposed—while the rest of the small council teetered warily. The last of the tallow candles sputtered as the soft morning light began to filter through the window. None of the women looked like they had slept much, if at all.

“As I was saying, our forces will be joined with those of our allies—of Orlais,” she repeated while I clutched at Cullen's hand in what I hoped was a reaffirming manor, “at the Battle of the Arbor Wilds. The Empress, the Duke, Brialla, among other critical political associations will be in attendance... _if you will?_ It is as much a military battle as it is a political summit. We cannot afford to offend these burgeoning relationships with our nobles and political allies by expecting them to dine on field rations—regardless of its practicality.”

Cullen scoffed a noise that would make Cassandra proud, but I could feel his defeat as the tension leached from his rigid stance.

I took a deep, shuddering breath. Not only would this be one of the more terrifying moments of my life with an active military campaign raging around me but it would also be one of the most demanding. Cooking for the Empress of Orlais and Duke Gaspard, and countless other known and ambitious political faces of Thedas who could theoretically ruin the rest of my life here—no pressure!

“I'm going to need headcounts for military, non-military, noble and political constituents, as well as any others that I haven't specified that will be relevant. I'll also need schedules: how long the battle is projected to last, how many dignitary banquets are needed, etc. Are the nobles providing for themselves during the rest of their, erm... _stay_ , etc.—“

“—Kit...“ Cullen warned, spinning me around to face him. I sighed heavily. I had few emotions left to give after last night. I knew that would change as the Arbor Wilds mission drew near but at this moment I felt stretched too thin to offer anything more than exhausted anger. I didn't want to wallow in what if's, I was ready to move forward.

“I believe that covers everything for now. We will reconvene this evening when the Inquisitor returns.” Leliana announced.

“Yes, please excuse us,” Josephine added, as both women scurried from the room eager to avoid the messy argument that threatened to erupt.

I backed away until my thighs hit the edge of the table. I wanted distance. It was nearly impossible to think when pressed up against a man who's clothes needed to be in a rumpled pile on the floor. I tugged my hands through my hair and chewed on my lip, while he rubbed the back of his neck.

“Look, Cullen...I,” I began, letting out a huge sigh, “I know your concerns and I share them. And I understand the Inquisition's needs and my job with them... But I don't really see a way where we can compromise between the two? Do you?”

“I— _Maker._ No.” He frowned, turned and punched the wall with the side of his fist so hard that the stone shook and bits of mortar and dust rained down on his head. His shoulders dropped and he leaned his head against the cool gray stone. “ _No._ ”

I pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades and wrapped my arms around the solidness of his middle. “I wish there was another way—other than desertion, I mean,” I said, earning a low chuckle.

“We could.” He offered, taking my hand in his and kissing my fingers.

“We will not,” I said, marveling at just how much his devotion to me had replaced his sense of duty to _everything_ else.

“Why were you in here with Josephine yesterday?” He asked suddenly.

It was my turn to stiffen and step back, but his grip on my hand remained firm. He growled and pulled me closer, guiding my hand across the firm expanse of his chest, over the hard plane of his stomach to the waist of his breeches, tugging on the laces.

“I—um...”

“Kit?”

“Don't be mad.” I began, our hands slipping beneath the lambswool as he guided my fingers over himself. “Stop. Put your hands above your head.” The noise he made was something between a whine and a gasp, and his hips stuttered violently. Obediently he placed his hands against the stone above him, as I sat on my haunches facing his hips and confessed everything about his retirement plans while dragging the black fabric of his pants down his hips.

Slowly, his hands lowered, tangling in my still short hair "Maker...Kit..that _feels_ so—" and my words began to sink in, stilling my movements,  "—wait, say again?" He panted. I pulled back with a swirl of my tongue earning myself another harsh gasp and a "sweet blessed Andraste— _fuck,_ " from my devout Andrastian Commander. 

"I spoke to Josephine about your retirement idea—and she secured some land outside of Honnleath for us and has arranged for some building schematics if you'd like... if you choose to open your templar treatment center, of course. There's no pressure. You've been so busy and I thought—"

"—Maker's Breath!" He gasped, dragging me from my feet and claiming my mouth with a fierce kiss. "Kit, I don't deserve you." Tugging up his pants, he escorted me toward the war table and leaned over me enthusiastically, steadying himself with hands on my hips. "Outside Honnleath you say? Show me the proposed site."

"Here," I said, I placing my finger on the little droplet that signified Cullen's prized inland body of water. "A few hundred acres I think? Will that be enough?"

"That's—that's _my_ lake... how did you? A few _hundred_ acres?" He sputtered. "Kit, _how_...?"

"Leverage," I answered mysteriously, wriggling my backside against him feeling his pants drop, "and a very persuasive Ambassador."

"The door isn't locked."

"Then you'd better hurry," I suggested as he slipped his thumbs under the waist of my trousers and dragged them over my hips.

"Put your knee on Denerim," he ordered, slipping his knee beneath mine and his hand between my legs, while my fingers were splayed wide across the Brecilian Forest for balance, and sweat dripped from my forehead onto the Castle of Caer Ostwin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Painstakingly beta-ed by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris).


	45. Quiche and Make Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proof that traveling with the pouty, overprotective Lion of Ferelden is nothing but complete and utter nonsense. Halla!

“You're being _fucking_ ridiculous.” I hissed under my breath, continuing our days long argument.

“So long as I am Commander of this farce, I will be as ridiculous as I please.” He said so haughtily while smoothing his hair, I wondered if there wasn't some Orlesian blood in him somewhere.

“It's been _five_ days and the most threatening thing we've seen so far is a majestic _fucking_ halla. For fucks sake, Cullen, I can ride my own _fucking_ horse.” I snarled.

“The _fucking_ enemy could be _anywhere,_ Kit.” He growled back, adjusting himself and tugging me closer. “Besides, keeping you close has its advantages.”

“You have trussed me around like a grainsack or lead me about like a child since we left Skyhold. Do you honestly think I want to dry hump on a horse with you? Right now? Seriously?”

“Who said anything about dry?” He smirked.

The zap of a lightning bolt came out of nowhere. Okay. It didn't come out of nowhere. It came from me and traveled straight into Cullen. Cullen, who wearing mostly metal, lit up like a superhuman electric conductor directing the remainder of the surge into the very large warhorse we were riding, _together._ The very large warhorse which then reared—dumping the two of us straight into the mud and sent a terrified pack of nearby halla leaping back into the relative safety of the trees. Cullen's golden eyes narrowed and frosted over from where he glared at me. The most templariest of former templars had married a mage and she'd just accidentally attacked him with magic—that couldn't end well, could it?

“Send word ahead to find a clearing and make camp.” He snapped at the closest one of Leliana's genderless hooded scout-messenger-courier-spy-people, while tugging off his cloak, who bobbed enthusiastically and ran off into the late afternoon light.

His grip bordered on pain as he took my hand as we backtracked toward a small stream we'd passed minutes before. The silence between us accented by the stomping of his feet and the startled bird sounds and skittering halla as we marched through the pristine tropical wilderness. Either he wasn't as concerned about _the enemy that lurked anywhere_ as he claimed, or stealth was a foreign concept within the templar ranks.

“Does the rule of thumb apply in Ferelden?” I wondered aloud, desperate to break the uncomfortableness that I'd brought upon us. "Goddamn, and what's with all these halla—I mean they're glorious and all but this population density has got to be a serious strain on the local ecology..."

“What utter nonsense are you rambling about now woman? We're in Orlais and halla are a _protected_ species.”

“What the hell? I do not... _ramble_ nonsense!” I said punctuating each word with a poke into the back of his plate armor covering. “Jesus Christ, it sounds like I'm arguing with a fucking halla paranoid gas canister.”

“You. Ramble. Utter. Fucking. Nonsense.” He swore, rounding on me, pressing me between himself and a thick mossy trunk, gold eyes wild and blazing, “it is my duty to protect you and I will do so—whatever the consequence.”

“Oh my God, you're so stupidly fucking hot. Shut up and kiss me already.”

“ _Maker_ —I thought you'd never ask.” He said, nipping and sucking on my bottom lip. Fingers tearing impatiently at the laces of my breeches while I fumbled with his and the buckles of his armor.

“Why must your outfits be so bloody complicated?” I gasped, spying yet another curious halla over his shoulder and quickly ignoring it to abandon the idea of divesting him of his cuirass. Instead, I let it hang limply from his shoulder and focused entirely on divesting him of his pants.

“Please, please tell me you haven't chosen this as the time to start wearing smalls?” He asked just before he managed to slide the fabric down my hips and over one ankle, confirming that I'd still not managed to succumb to the cumbersome artifacts Ferelden's populace considered undergarments. “Andraste be praised!”

His hands were everywhere. Followed by his mouth. His cloak a red puddle on the ground. My shirt was half open, exposed to the tropical air. Most of his armor was hanging half undone. The warm breeze was cool against my skin where it followed the searing trail of his mouth. His hands rough on my hips as he pressed me against the soft moss of the tree for leverage, lifting and finally claiming me as his.

“Please don't be mad at me.” He whispered against the sweat-slick skin of my neck. “You mean more than the world to me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris) beta-ed this chapter, and hugs hallas. 
> 
> Next chapter: Kit cooks local wildlife... I don't know. Maybe? It's not written yet. Who wants salads for everyone? Yeesh.


	46. Cheese Louise!

“Did you hear me?” He asked, as I looked from Josie to Leliana to the Inquisitor and back to Cullen again.

“I'd like to think I've become delusional and misheard you,” I answered, feeling numbness spread from my knees to my toes, my voice rising in pitch and volume as a torrent of words rushed from my mouth. “What do you mean the food is delayed? Delayed how long? What does that leave us with? I have a dinner to cook for a fucking _Empress_ of all people and there's no food? What do you mean there's _no_ food, Cullen?”

I did not envy him as I watched him teeter between husband and Commander. “We have rations?” He offered meekly, his hand flexing on his sword pommel as if it was the only thing keeping him from reaching out and pulling me into a hug—a very Cullen-thing to do but not a very Commander-like thing to do—and then repeated with his Commander-voice, “We have field rations. You'll find a way to make due. We all will.”

“What exactly do field rations consist of?”

To his credit, even Cullen grimaced. “Dried meat. Dried fruit. Hard cheese. Hardtack.”

“That's—wow... that's just not good at all,” I scrubbed my hand over my face and chewed on my lip. “Is there anything else?”

“I'll have troops bring whatever rations you need for the dinner tonight, as soon as things are concluded here, consider them at your disposal.”

I looked pleadingly at Josephine who shrugged helplessly. “I wish we had a better solution, but in circumstances such as these there is little more we can do,” she said. “The Empress can be eccentric, perhaps she will find this to be ... an adventure?”

“Thank you,” I said, giving him a swift kiss goodbye as I departed the command tent—not caring if it wasn't very Commander-y or professional.

By the time the handful of troops had arrived with my own cache of field rations I had a plan. “Dulcet and Cullen's army guys, grab as many crates and baskets and things as you can find. Are there spears? Do you have spears? Get some spears! I've got a plan. We're sourcing locally!”

“You sure we should be doing this, miss?” One of the recruits or whatever they were called, asked as we stepped into a clearing.

I looked around and tried to quell my rising second thoughts. “Well... I mean, we're surrounded by the Inquisition's army, how much danger could we be in, really? Oh look, those little fancy tailed quail things! We need those! Get 'em!”

The moment the words “get 'em” left my lips, I may as well have said, “get us,” as a crowd of Red Templars came crashing out of the tree-line toward our under-armed party. Our only advantage was the sheer chaos of our terror, pandemonium, and overall disorganization as we all ran around in mindless circles, squealing and flailing for our little lives, locally sourced ingredients tossed into the air like confetti, our accompanying soldiers bravely joining our ranks.

The band of Red Templars stood stunned or confused at the rampant hysteria around them. It was unclear if they'd planned to attack us or stumbled upon us by accident, but in the midst of their temporary combafflement (read: combat + bafflement) Cullen and a contingent of soldiers charged from the opposite tree line looking like Armageddon. The moment he emerged I stopped and stared as he roared in to save us like a real-life superhero, cape and all, slamming into the biggest baddest Red Templar guy with a shield bash that made its entire body crack.

Sorry, ladies. He's all mine.

The battle was short and efficient. I wondered if maybe I shouldn't have picked the mages for all my Inquisition playthroughs... and why there wasn't an option just to send Cullen to kick ass and take names?

“Say, aren't you supposed to be a blood mage?” Someone called from across the clearing. Cullen snarled and glared in the general direction of the voice, and I rolled my eyes, but wisely no one took credit. Obviously someone had been stationed at Halamshiral. I guess I could have zapped someone or something? As pathetic as that might have been, and useless. But the idea of using magic—even though I technically know how, now—fled my mind completely when faced with the prospect of actually needing to defend myself with it.

“What in Andraste's name do you think you're doing out here, Kit?” He panted, the flush of violence colored his cheeks and worry made his eyes wild and bright. My smile dropped. Kick-ass Cullen was focused on me—and not in a happy to have saved my life kind of way.

“We're... _foraging_?”

“Maker's— _fuck_...Kit! _Foraging_?! We're in the middle of a war zone and you're _foraging_? A war zone! Do you understand _that_? You can't just leave camp and go _forage_. You were almost killed. Maker's breath—if I hadn't come along... if—I—”

“It's fine. I'm fine. Cullen, I'm fine. You saved us from the bad guy and we're all fine.”

“It's not _bloody_ fine!” He yelled. “Kit, you should be _dead_ right now!”

“I—”

“Maker's Breath!” He yelled several octaves higher than usual, face scarlet, tossing his hands in the air.

I didn't get to finish whatever it was I'd been about to say because he'd spun on his heel and stormed away. He'd saved me and I was fine. Everything was fine—right?

“Well, 'e's not 'appy,” One of the soldiers observed nearby. “Glad we don't 'ave to be there for drills tonight.”

“It's fine.” I called over my shoulder, nervously trying to tuck a curl that was just long enough to not stick behind my ear—behind my ear, “everything's fine.”

“Ma'am. If I may,” the lead guard said softly, “I've been under Cullen's command for some time now, and that was not 'fine.'”

“Yeah. I'm aware of that...” I replied. “But, thanks.”

Fuck, me. Everything was so indescribably _not_ fine, I wiped at a stray tear and tried to pretend it was allergies from all this goddamn tropical pollen. I had _hours_ to go before I would see Cullen again to try to make amends.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read, reviewed and approved by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris). Then I decided to add a bunch of stuff and not tell her and aggressively posted without requesting feedback because I'm an evil pain in the ass. So, any mistakes are all mine and not a reflection of her superior beta-ing abilities.
> 
> Also, since I'm posting late, enjoy the bonus chapter that's being posted in the next 10ish minutes (okay, so in real minutes that's going to be like an hour since I have a process and have to think of a clever title and then I have to second guess myself a thousand times). I swear another chapter is going to be posted really soon though. Really. ♥


	47. I'm Sour-y, So Sour-y

The rest of the evening sped by in a blur of work and nerves, sweat and steam. There was no time to pause and reflect until I was standing outside of our tent. As tired as I was, I hovered outside before opening the flap, dreading the consequence that loomed inside.

Dried Mutton Consommé, Roasted Deep Mushroom and Felandaris Salad, Rotisserie Arbor Quails, Candied Arbor Blessing. Luckily, _some_ of the necessary kitchen accouterments arrived with me and other kitchen staff, while the bulk of our supplies remained delayed—possibly for days. What we couldn't make due with field rations we supplemented with what we foraged from the Wilds.

Josephine had the unenviable task of informing the nobles and their accompanying servants that they would have to make due with whatever supplies they'd provided for themselves. It was not the sweet stuff of diplomatic dreams. She'd been right about one thing though, the Empress had found the dining experience both “quaint and invigorating!” Which, was a success in itself? I think? I was too tired to care. Mostly, I was glad it was over having had to throw all my initial plans into the cooking fire and improvise a mere hours before the most important meal of my Ferelden life—oh wait, we're in Orlais. Ugh.

There was also the small matter of my near death before planning and preparing all courses of this Feast d'Fiasco. As a general rule, I did not experience near death nearly as much while at Skyhold but take me away from that castle and I was a near death magnet. Orlais, that putrid chantry in Orlais, now the Arbor Wilds. Oh wait, that's also in Orlais. Ugh. No wonder Cullen hated this country.

Needless to say, I was bone weary and wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for a week—but I knew I had a stern lecture, if not a more furious version of Cullen Stanton Rutherford waiting for me inside of that tent. After all, this near-death experience of mine was pretty much entirely my fault.

When I finally managed to work-up the courage to crawl inside it wasn't the roar of the lion that met me, it was silence. Cullen was already, and uncharacteristically in bed, with his back to the tent opening. While I knew he wasn't asleep given the tenseness in the line of his naked shoulders and back, he gave no outward acknowledgment to my entry.

Shit.

I shrugged off my clothes and tugged on my sleep shirt with what little energy I had remaining and climbed into bed behind him, wrapping my arms tight around his middle. Cringing when he tensed, even more, in my embrace.

“I'm sorry,” I said, leaning my head against the solid warmth of his back. For a moment, he didn't move. He didn't breathe. For a moment I didn't either. Then suddenly our positions were reversed. I found myself wrapped in his arms, so tight I could barely breathe, while deep silent sobs wracked his body. I tangled my arms around him trying to comfort him as best I could, wiping his tears, and kissing his lips.

He'd almost lost me today and it was my fault. I knew better. I knew the dangers of where we were—in the middle of a war zone of all places and I just went off and did my own thing and should probably be dead now. I _knew_ that. I knew that before I went out there.

And Cullen, while he was concerned about all these external dangers—he neglected to think that I might be the biggest danger to myself. In addition to being the living embodiment of his worst fears, I worried that I'd broken his trust in me irrevocably.

I'd screwed up, I mean, I _really_ screwed up. Who else could say that they'd made the Commander of the Inquisition cry? I broke the Commander of the Inquisition. And there was no way that I could just—fix it and make everything better between us.

“Shit, Cullen. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Commander Sullen. So much angst. I may have cried a little writing this chapter. Also, I thought today was Friday.
> 
>  
> 
> Meticulously pre-inspected by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris).


	48. Wheat a Minute...

I stepped into the breezeway of the Skyhold gardens and immediately drew myself back among the shadows of an alcove. I was not seeing what I was seeing. Hell, I wasn't even sure what it was that I was seeing but it did not look  _good_.

After my somewhat disastrous decision to foray into the untamed jungles of the Arbor Wilds to forage for some locally sourced ingredients to make dinner for each of the highest-ranking officials in that accursed country, Cullen had been—distant to say the least. He was withdrawn. Distant. Sullen. Distant. Mercurial. _Distant._ And I was at a loss how to make things right. I gave him space. I encouraged him to talk to me. It was as if he wasn't present—his mind was far away and preoccupied with his own private demons.

At last, he seemed to have found someone to share them with, as he smiled wryly at Morrigan of all fucking people. She appraised him over and over again, up and down, with her inhuman yellow eyes and that condescending ever-present smirk. The twig handle of my herb basket snapped between my trembling fingers, as she smiled up at him and nodded while caressing his bicep.

I'd seen enough. Herbs forgotten, I turned to leave and crashed into Solas. “For fuck's sake, Solas, stop sneaking around like that all the time...you're like a fucking wolf in sheep's clothing.” I snapped, continuing on my way.

He cocked his head and grabbed my arm. “What do you know?” he asked, spinning me back toward him.

“I know you fucked-up. And you just turned into a stage four creeper... now, let me go.” I jerked my arm out of his grip and stomped back inside the castle, not stopping until I was back in the safety of the kitchens where I dumped my empty, broken herb basket and marched straight across the courtyard into the tavern. The light was dim, and the conversations were a lull in the background while Maryden sang, _Sera was Never_ —AGAIN.

“New song, Maryden? When do you find the time?" I trolled, as I passed the bard. I spotted Bull at the bar, talking animatedly to Cabot and Cabot disregarding him as only Cabot could. "Bull.” I nodded, dropping into the seat next to him. 

“Kitten! You're just in time... Come have a drink!”

“Why is it, every time I walk into this bar, I'm just in time for  _something_?”

“To killing a high dragon, like warriors of legend!”

“Excuse me?”

“Just work with me here okay? We just returned from Emprise du Lion and took out three fucking bad-assiest dragons  _ever_  and the Inquisitor won't celebrate with me—and you're here, so  _drink_!” He explained, pouring me a Qunari-sized mug of something that sizzled when it hit the metal.

I shrugged. “My day is shit so far—what are we drinking?”

“Maraas-Lok.” He growled, leaning inappropriately close.

“What's  _that..._?” I asked, hesitantly.

“It means, drink!” He cheered, toasting my mug and roaring with laughter at his semi-inebriated wit.

I took a deep breath and followed his instruction.

“We have something like this where I'm from,” I wheezed when I thought I'd finally finished coughing.

“It's called Bacardi 151. It's named for the alcohol content....and we usually mix it with something.”

“Yeah—we're mixing it with our stomachs.” He smiled at my grimace. “I know right? Puts some chest on your chest. That little gurgle before it spat fire? And that roar? What I wouldn't give to roar like that...”

“You're changing topics aren't you?” I asked, sipping my mug. It was easier that way. Tiny little sips of liquid Drano® and my lips didn't quite feel like they were going to peel off in one go.

“I know I'm quick and all but try to keep up, Kitten.” He quipped. “...the way the ground shook when it landed. The smell of the fires burning. Taarsidath-an halasaam.”

I sipped and nodded. Obviously, he was going to give me some sort of sign or acknowledgment when he wanted me to contribute to this unilateral banter.

“You know, the Qunari hold dragons sacred? Well, as much as we hold anything sacred.” He chuckled at himself again and topped off my mug. This was fine. After watching Cullen and Morrigan in the garden together, I didn't need to have a conversation. I didn't need to talk about _my_ feelings. Hell, Cullen didn't need to talk about his feelings, with me either. Drinking myself into oblivion was a completely acceptable alternative. “Here, your turn.”

“Maryden! Play Ragnar the Red!” I yelled, giggling. “Okay...? What was that thing you said, in Qunlat the tartsinabath and all that?”

“Oh, taarsidath-an halasaam?” He asked, looking over my shoulder and hesitating, “Closest translation would be,  _I will bring myself sexual pleasure later while thinking about this with great respect_.”

“Yeah, I say that too every time I successfully de-bone a duck,” I said rolling my eyes. _Gross._

“ _Commander_.” The former Ben-Hassrath greeted, clearing his throat awkwardly and vacating his seat. “It's uh—been real nice talking with you, Kitten.”

I looked over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of the death-glare Cullen was giving Bull and his half-drawn sword, leaving no doubt that he'd overheard the “sexual pleasure” component of our tête-à-tête. Cullen took Bull's seat and surveyed me carefully.

“You lose your edge? I've never seen you back down so quick...” I heard Krem tease from where Bull rejoined the Chargers.

“You may not have noticed, Krem de la Krem, but the Commander's not exactly reasonable when it comes to _his_ woman. I'm not getting in the middle of that shit.”

"Yeah, we had money on whether he'd stab you in your good eye for that _sexual pleasure_ comment."

Cullen overheard the discussion about us, as well, and smirked.

"Yeah...well. You do you. I do—"

"Everything?" Krem supplied.

"Enough, Krem," Bull grumbled.

Sniffing the mug that Bull had abandoned, he asked, “Maker, Kit, what is this?”

“Maraas-Lok.” I growled, taking another sip.

“Maraas—Maker, how can you...” He took my mug and took a drink for himself, having much the same reaction as I did for my first swallow. “Maker's balls. That's worse than it smells!”

“How's  _Morrigan_?” I asked, smiling and ready to battle. The mug slipped from Cullen's fingers. A chorus of scraping chairs erupted as those around us left.

“I...um...”

“Yeah—Cullen.  _Um._..” I yelled slamming my hands on the bar top and standing up, not caring who overheard me. “ _Um,_  why don't you start by telling me what you and Morrigan had to talk about in the gardens that required her to have her fucking sneaky witch hands on you!”

“My money's on Kit,” Bull announced.

“No one's going to take that bet, you _daft cow_. _Everyone's_ money is on Kit.” Skinner snapped.

“Kit, I'm gonna to need you to take this discussion elsewhere,” Cabot suggested tentatively. “You're scaring—well,  _everyone_.”

I pointed to Cullen. “Your office. _Now._ ”

We took the stairs while Cullen pleaded, various, versions of  _it's not what you think'_ s. As we crested the top, Cole flew at us yelling hysterically and flailing his arms.

“No, no, no! Not again! Not in my room! Not in my room!” Cullen and I shared a look, our cheeks turning red and we laughed, as we simultaneously remembered what had happened between us the last time we were on the third floor of the tavern. “Get out! Get out! Get out!”

Our moment of levity was over the moment the tavern door closed behind us and our argument began anew as we yelled our way to our shared tower.

“She's doing research!”

“On what?! Your muscle density?”

“She was trying to comfort me— _Andraste preserve me!_ —I didn't _ask her_ to touch me, Kit.”

“You could've said, _'eww! stop!'_ and pulled away—there was none of that, now was there?"

"That would have been rude... she's an— _ambassador_ , if you will?" He choked on the word _ambassador._  The idea that she would be serving in an official capacity to represent a country or government, was laughable. Morrigan's purposes served only her own, anyone who spoke with her for five seconds knew as much. Not to mention, ambassadors usually had some concept of diplomacy and dealing with Morrigan could be described as anything but pleasant.

"Maybe, if you'd talk to  _your wife_  instead of bottling up your anger toward me and shutting me out—Here's an idea? _I_  could comfort  _you_ and then you wouldn't require it from some random overly-ambitious god-baby-mama whoring about in the garden?!”

"Whoring god-baby-mama...?" He mumbled, shaking his head in confusion and dismissed my retort—probably as more _utter fucking nonsesnse_. He rounded on me, pressing me against the ladder, pupils wide, his arms on either side of my head. “How would you like to comfort me, Kit?” He purred against my neck, teeth grazing my skin, rubbing the length of his body against mine.

“Fuck you, Cullen.” I hissed.

“I'd rather fuck _you_.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

I huffed and rolled my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Kit, we're talking about Morrigan for Makersakes." He scrubbed his hand over his face and across the back of his neck, still pressed intimately against me and I could _feel_ just how uninterested he was by the mere mention of Morrigan. "I don't know what else to say? She touched my arm. It was unpleasant for you. It was unpleasant for me. If she learns that it bothered you—Maker, she'll be in here _every day_...”

I couldn't help but smile at his last statement. He was right about that and we'd both be even more miserable. I missed him. This argument was the first ordinary conversation we'd had in almost a month. One long horrible, awful month. I knew I was letting him have the easy way out, but things had been so strained between us... I wanted some measure of normalcy, even if that meant swallowing my anger—temporarily—and promising myself that we would revisit this issue regarding Morrigan later. For now, I would let Cullen distract me as only Cullen could.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed twice by [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris), then I was naughty and added a bunch of stuff after--again.
> 
> Also, did you know if you click on the [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris) link you'll disapparate into a magical world of Harry Potter fanfiction? It's way more reliable than floo powder, less messy too.


	49. Pasta La Vista, Baby

“We haven't played chess in forever, join me this morning?” He asked as we walked across the bridge that led to Solas' mural-covered sanctuary.

We hadn't. We'd barely had time for each other and had savored what moments we could with intimacy, and after the disaster of the Arbor Wilds, even that had suffered too. We'd only been together once since then and I missed everything between us. I hoped that this was his attempt at trying to make an effort toward forgiveness and if we were on our way to return to what we'd been before then? Because I didn't know how much more I could take, knowing that I'd driven us apart—driven him away—to such an extent. I wanted desperately for us to return to—us.

Things were better this morning than they had been since before the Arbor Wilds. After we got to the tower Cullen had been ravenous—insatiable—we'd managed to desecrate every spare surface of his office from the ladder to his desk to the floor downstairs and the bed, the door, the wall, the bookshelf, the other bookshelf, the ladder again, the floor upstairs... My legs were still unsteady.

“I suppose the kitchens can survive without me for  _one_ breakfast? Although you may have to teach me to play again, it's been so long.” I teased and earned a rueful smile as he clasped his hand in mine. His grip was too tight and the bones in my hand pinched. I wiggled my fingers until he lessened his hold as we stepped into the main hall. I stopped, just before we reached the garden door, “Cullen, are you... okay? Would you rather not play chess and just go somewhere to talk about— _stuff_?”

His face blanched and his lips flattened before he nodded and swallowed thickly before saying anything. “There's—a lot... with battles—I...  _trebuchets_.”

“Mmmkay? I guess that means you'll tell me when you're ready?” I winced, resuming my stride toward the garden.

“Kit wait.” He pleaded, tugging me back toward him, “I love you. No matter what—Please don't forget that? I've always loved you. I  _will_  always love you. ” He promised, covering my mouth with his and pulling me against the solid warmth of his body. Finally, I began to feel like we were beginning to forge ahead and move beyond the rift that had developed between us.

I cupped his cheek, he'd forgotten to shave again and the stubble was soft against my hand. “I love you too, Cullen.”

He opened the door for me and I walked into silence. The gardens were empty of their usual crowd of people, meandering gossipers and solace seekers. Instead, Morrigan, Solas, Dorian, and The Iron Bull stood near Morrigan's arbor—their eyes on us.

“What's going on?” I asked, alarmed.

Cullen didn't answer at first. Instead, he took my hand, squared his shoulders and looked straight ahead, leading us toward the small crowd that was waiting for us. “I'm sending you home.” He whispered.

I stopped and tried to pull my hand away, tears falling before I knew I was crying. “I don't want to go home—my home is here, with you.”

“I can't protect you here, Kit. I need to know that you're safe. I can't—I just can't...” His voice broke as he dragged me toward the waiting members of the Inquisition. “...with Corypheus, if we fail— _Maker_. I need you to be safe.”

“Ready?” Bull asked Cullen who gave him a somber nod.

“Cullen, please don't—don't do this...” Hot fat tears scalded my cheeks.

“We can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way,” the Qunari warned.

“No! Fuck you. I am not leaving! Cullen— _No!_ I am not going anywhere! Don't do this!”

Bull put one arm around my waist lifted me off the ground, arms and legs windmilling until I was deposited in the middle of the room that held Morrigan's Eluvian.

“If there was any other way—“ Cullen's voice broke as he entered the room. “Maker. I love you... more than  _everything_.”

“Remember when you told me how you worried that you would  _fail_  me? This is it, Cullen. This is you failing me.” I shouldn't have said that. As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew, I'd gone too far. I watched his color drain and his eyes shutter closed, his face drawn tight as he tried to keep himself together and the last remnants of that composure crumbling.

“I know,” he whispered, cupping my cheek, “please forgive me.” Then he was turning from me and walking away, his head hanging between his shoulders, while Morrigan and Solas chanted, trying to shove me through the Eluvian, kicking and screaming. Cullen gripped the door frame and stopped on the threshold. The last thing I saw was the strongest man I'd ever known, crumple to the ground.

“Cullen, no!” I screamed as The Iron Bull stalked toward me and gave me a solid gladiatorial push through the barrier. I was still kicking and screaming as I tossed myself off the couch. Peanut flying across the room, hissing and fluffing up every standing on end like an angry cheese puff.

_Cullen._

“What the fuck?” My ex-screamed, alarmed as I crashed to the floor in a sobbing mess. “What the hell are you doing?! What the fuck is a Cullen?”

_Cullen. A dream?_

I didn't answer him. I picked myself off the floor and stumbled to the bathroom and slammed the door.

_Cullen. Did I just dream—everything?_

“Jesus Kit. What the hell is wrong with you?” I heard him yell.

_Cullen. The near death, the marriage, the torture and the other near death and the amazing mind-blowing sex—all of it a dream?_

I didn't even make it to the toilet before my stomach revolted. I turned just in time to hit the bowl of the sink. When I was done I brushed my teeth and washed my face, then sat on the toilet and cried. I cried until I'd used up all the Kleenex and toilet paper and paper towels. Then I was sick again, brushed my teeth again, washed my face again, and stepped out of the bathroom.

_Cullen. There's no way._

“I'm going to move back in with my mum.” I sniffed, picking up a still disgruntled Peanut for a cuddle.

_Cullen. There's no way that was all a dream._

“Yeah—okay. I mean, I know we broke up and you need to move out, but—are  _you_...okay?”

_Dammit. Cullen. It had to have been a dream?_

If there was one thing I was not, that thing was okay. The tears started again.

_Shit. Jesus. Fuck. Cullen. I was in love with a dream._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... that was unexpected. I cried. [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris) cried. Are you crying yet?
> 
> Also, did you know if you click on the [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris) link you'll disapparate into a magical world of Harry Potter fanfiction? I've got a serious crush on her Sirius Black. Accio, Padfoot.


	50. Honey, I'm Home

_**One Year Later** _

“Thanks, Jimm-o.” I said as the bartender slid my usual toward me.

I stared into at the head of my beer, willing it to go down. Moving back home took some getting used to, and a lot of that was in the form of liquid lubrication to ease the strain of being treated anew like a child. So many rules. So many questions. So much micromanaging. Who are you seeing? What are you doing? Where are you going? Why are you going?

“ _I'm going to the pub.”_

“ _Again?”_

“ _Yes, again.”_

“ _When will you be back?”_

“ _When I'm done.”_

“ _My daughter the little alchy... That behavior is going to get you raped and murdered one of these days.”_

“ _Don't wait up.”_

“Don't bother, mate—she's not interested.” I heard the barkeep say as a warm body slid into the vacant seat next to me.

“He's right. I'm not interested.” I said, dismissing my wannabe suitor without a glance.

The Cullen dream hadn't faded like I'd expected a dream would or should. Each moment was seared into my brain like a memory. Each touch. Each glance. Each word. Each moment. I mourned him like a grieving widow. My mother assumed I was hung up on my ex-fiancee. I didn't bother to correct her. God, who would believe that anyway? Sorry, mum, I'm heartbroken over a dream and he's ruined me for all others. Complete insanity.

“You're too pretty to—”

“I. Am. Not. Interested.” I said loud enough for the entire pub to hear and hoped I was setting a precedent for the remainder of the night. I picked up my untouched pint and moved to a table in the corner, alone—where I could  _hopefully_  drink my fill unnoticed and undisturbed by anyone else.

I stared at my beer, remembering our first encounter. I missed him more than I could describe. I wiped at a stray tear. Good lord, I'd have thought I'd at least be done crying over him by now. A fictional character. I needed therapy. Or more beer. I sniffled, taking a long drink. Rolling my eyes as a shadow fell across the table and someone new sat across from me. Not  _again._

“Are you deaf? I already said I wasn't interested.”

“Sorry, I didn't see you there...” came a familiar sounding voice and a familiar conversation, “I can sit somewhere else?”

My heart stopped and my lungs were on fire and I didn't dare look up. I didn't dare. My eyes were hot. My heart roared back to life like a freight train in my ears. I sucked in a loud gasp air and held it, afraid to exhale. There was no way. No way that that voice belonged to who I thought it was.

“Kit?” He asked, leaning low against the table, amber eyes and the familiar twist of a scarred lip appeared around my half-empty beer glass.

Oh shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Oh, holy shit.

I clamped my hand over my mouth with an inarticulate noise, and hot tears splashed on my fingers. “It's not you?” I gasped between deep shuddering sobs, drawing a lot of attention from those around us. “It can't be you?”

“It's me.” He whispered as if he didn't trust his own voice either. “Cullen Stanton Rutherford—in the flesh.”

I launched myself from my chair sending both the table and the beer glass tumbling to the ground. The barkeep yelling at us to be careful. My arms twining around his neck as he crushed me against him. My tears and unladylike snot staining the knitted shoulder of his sweater. “H-h-how?” I choked, shaking and sobbing against him.

“I promised you that if there was another way... there was another way.” He purred, stroking my hair.

“I thought you were a dream. I thought I was crazy.”

“Dream-y maybe...” He teased.

I snorted into his shoulder and did the one thing I'd only dreamed about for the past year, I pressed my mouth against his in a lingering kiss. His hands tangled in my hair desperately and he pulled me against him in a way that was much too suggestive for public. I fought the sudden flash of need that screamed for release between my legs, fought not to make more of a scene and rub myself against him to completion. Maker, how I'd missed this man and how he could arouse me to senselessness with a mere kiss or a quick touch.

Cullen sighed and pressed his forehead against mine, his pupils wide and his breathing shallow. “After we defeated Corypheus... Solas disappeared. Morrigan and Dorian—they found a way to duplicate the spell she and Solas used with the Eluvian to send you home, to send me to you.”

“But how did you find me—once you got here, I mean?”

“It's a long story and we don't have time for all the details tonight... but I used a computer!”

I couldn't even begin to imagine my medieval boyfriend—husband?—whatever, using a computer. The idea was mind-blowing.

“They're like magic!” He cried. I raised my eyebrow. It was hard to imagine the templariest of former templars to be excited about anything magical—then again, I was once a mage and he'd been excited about me. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I don't have any plans, why?”

“I was hoping we could get married again.”

“Yeah, okay.” I nodded, tears flowing anew. I was too stunned for better words and pulled him toward me for a kiss.

“Maker's breath—I've missed you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the last chapter, I didn't want to make you suffer and wait for the reuniting of these two. I adore an unexpected twist ending but also a happy one, after all that house by the lake and the templar recovery center wouldn't have meant anything for Cullen without Kit. Thanks for joining me on this journey with Kit and Cullen. I hope you enjoyed the (bumpy) ride. I'd love to know your thoughts in the comments (if you don't hate me). If you enjoyed this please leave some kudos and better yet, please give me a bookmark! See you around. ❤
> 
> ♡ Thank you [Valardoheris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valardoheris/pseuds/Valardoheris) for coming to my rescue, wearing many hats from knight in shining armor to motivator to hysterical commentator and otherwise being the best beta this lady could have asked for--I know I'm a relentless pain! ♡ Everyone else, go read her stuff and give her some kudos. Yeesh. ♡
> 
> If you haven't already, and enjoyed this mess please leave a Kudo to shower me with some love because my fingers are sore. And if you liked this trash well enough, please give me a shout-out in the form of a Bookmark to help brag about just how much you loved this plot-straying fluff-fest and maybe lure in some like-minded readers. ❤ Lady A.


End file.
